


Episode Two: We Hate Cats!

by Lorien, Lucidnancyboy



Series: The Self-Sacrificial Steve & Bucky Show [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Stucky - Fandom
Genre: Angst, But they try to get better at it, Canon Divergent, Clint Is a Good Bro, Depression, Dick Jokes, Drinking, Dysfunctional Superheroes Trying Really Hard, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Hints at Past Steve/Bucky/Peggy, Hopeful Ending, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kittens, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mentions of Past Torture, Mild Sexual Content, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Suicidal Ideation, Switch Bucky, Switch Steve, Therapy, Tony Stark is a surprisingly Good Bro, alcoholic character, past dubious consent, so many dick jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-17 00:16:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 88,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11840019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/pseuds/Lorien, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucidnancyboy/pseuds/Lucidnancyboy
Summary: Simply put, Bucky was different now. It had taken a heaping dose of pain for Steve to get that fact through his thick skull, but they were finally on the same page...sort of. Unfortunately, ‘sort of’ wasn’t making things easier. Like an idiot, Steve had expected instantaneous rainbows and sunshine to bathe them in happiness, but all he saw was a giant wall of stubborn and bacon flying at his head.Bucky and Clint covering their mouths so Steve couldn’t hear them whispering? It hurt. Bucky and Tony laughing at unfunny jokes about torture? It hurt. Bucky and Nat exchanging secret spy glances? It hurt. But Sam declaring himself ‘Team Bucky’? That downright sucked. Once, Bucky had given those pieces of himself to Steve...and only Steve. That was the problem: Steve wasn’t the boy Bucky fell in love with, he wasn’t Captain America, and he wasn’t doing a good job at being Steve Rogers. Their foundation lost, the question had become, ‘Now what?’The fighting, laughing, panicking, hugging, sarcasm, make-up sex, and yes, flying bacon proved that they were trying, but relationships are never a straight line; especially when you both get frozen and end up in the wrong century.





	1. Princesses

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to our collaboration for the Stucky Big Bang over at [thestuckylibrary-bigbang](https://thestuckylibrary-bigbang.tumblr.com/).  
> We’ll be posting new chapters regularly over the next four days along with drawings by Lorien (drjezdzany) to accompany each chapter.
> 
> Working together on "Episode One: Red Vines" was such an exceptional experience that we weren't willing to let go of each other and decided to continue our collaboration by writing a sequel. After putting you lovely readers through the emotional angst of “Red Vines”, our original idea was to create a nice, fluffy story with lots of sunshine and love for the boys. While this episode of ‘The Self-Sacrificial Steve & Bucky Show’ is all that, we wouldn’t be us if we didn’t add a heaping dose of angst along the way. We had a lot of fun amassing this emotional roller coaster, and we hope you’ll enjoy the ride too! 
> 
> Thanks to the sbb mods for organizing this Big Bang!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and welcome to Episode Two of 'The Self-Sacrificial Steve & Bucky Show'. Music played a very important role in the creation of this story, so here's a link to the entire playlist on [JessieLucidYouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLbGnycMfOsiCQkT2OKUZFlpvhm8PRw5MA) if you are a mood music person. The songs for each chapter all also listed in the end notes.
> 
> Enjoy and thank you so much for reading :)

                                                   

                                                   

 

 **Now What?** **Saturday, July 8, 2017- 4 pm**

“I told you that I didn’t want to do anything for my birthday, Buck. Hanging out on the couch and watching another episode of ‘The Walking Dead’ sounds perfect to me. We’re almost through season four, and I really want to find out what happened to Beth.” Steve used two fingers to separate the blinds, peeking out the window of their bedroom like he was doing surveillance, but Bucky was way too smart for that. No covert birthday operations were taking place within the sightlines from their apartment. He’d made sure of it. “Or, we could go on a long motorcycle ride into Albany and pretend that it’s not my birthday. I bet Tony would let us take out the Harley Rocker if we asked nicely.”

Bucky laughed outright and leaned back against their dresser, because that wasn’t even close to subtle. “Nice try, Steve. I know you just wanna pretend that I’m Norman Reedus again; all dirty and sexy, straddling my big motorcycle. I’m just waiting for you to call me Daryl in bed one of these days. It’s gonna happen. It’s only a matter of time. Seriously, your obsession with his biker mystique is verging on creepy.”

Rolling his eyes and ignoring Bucky’s very legitimate point, Steve adjusted the waistband of his black boxers; like messing with his underwear would somehow cover up the fact that after they’d finished binge watching the first season last month, Steve had strategically pushed Bucky’s shaggy brown hair back over his ears (like a certain someone named Daryl), then, with a raunchy little smile, had asked if Bucky had a leather vest hiding in the back of their closet (wonder who wore one of those? Oh yeah, Daryl). The point being, when the credits roll after a particularly Daryl-centric episode where the director had lined up an overabundance of camera angles to perfectly capture extended footage of Reedus’ arm muscles rippling in HD when he held up his crossbow, you aren’t fooling anyone by ‘subtly’ asking your lover to wear a leather vest when you fuck him. Hard core Daryl roleplay? Yeah, Steve was into it.  

“It’s just,” Steve sighed. “Ninety-nine years old is really old, Buck, and I’d rather just hang out with you.”

Steve dramatically belly flopped into the middle of their bed, signaling the commencement of a full-fledged two-year-old ‘I don’t wanna’ temper tantrum. If Bucky had a cherry lollipop, he’d shove it right into Steve’s mouth to get him to stop whining; and not in the fun, sexy way where Bucky would drag his tongue across the sucker just enough to get it sticky before rubbing it across Steve’s lips, staining them the most delicious shade of red. Maybe Bucky should have packed a wide variety of rainbow suckers in his excellent ‘Pool Party Bug Out Backpack’? You know, for later...

Grabbing the ends of Steve’s ankles, Bucky started pulling him backwards. The fact that he had to use his flesh arm to do most of the work wasn’t getting any less weird, but when your fancy metal one basically gets burned off and they have to replace almost every single connection point to your mother fucking skeleton, you have to make some goddamn adjustments. Even using his human arm...normal arm...skin and bone arm...they all sounded stupid...Even using his _non-burnt-off_ arm, Bucky still felt the damaged connections in the overcooked one tugging wrong against the tendons, and, every time he strained it too hard, tiny zips and zings buzzed around the bottom of his scapula and ran up through his spine until they hit the base of his neck. Every single electric zap reminded Bucky of what he’d done to himself, what he’d put everyone through, and what he was _still_ putting Tony through every time the poor guy tried something else to fix all the glitches. For every success, something else stopped working. For every place that stopped hurting, three more would start.

But that was the thinking that Bucky was supposed to be changing. He felt like a fucking idiot staring in the mirror every time he went to take a piss, telling himself ‘you’re worth it’, ‘you deserve Tony’s help’, ‘you deserve Steve’s love’. Needless to say, he’d been holding his pee for way longer than was probably healthy, just to avoid the mirrors and the inevitable lame affirmations. Another zap ran across his collarbone, up the side of his neck, finishing with a big enough snap behind his optic nerve to make Bucky see white for a second. His general opinion on the whole situation? Easy. Everything was still fucked.

Switching his grip, Bucky caught Steve’s ankles in his one good hand and pulled, because this was gonna be a good day even if he had to fucking force it to be! And if that meant dislocating his one good shoulder (again) to get Steve’s whiny ass off the goddamn bed, then Bucky was gonna damn well do it! He’d planned this day with his new, fun loving friend Tony, which Bucky was also still not used to in the slightest, but their budding bromance was developing at a much faster rate than his body was healing from Odessa.

Tony told inappropriate jokes. Bucky told inappropriate jokes. They told each other side-splittingly funny knee-slappers about murder, torture, suicide, alcoholism, depression, alienating fiancés, brainwashing, you know...the normal things that people snicker at over cheap beer and stale popcorn in smoky comedy clubs all across the country. But the point was, when Tony Stark wasn’t trying to kill him, or making Bucky’s life a living hell with his well deserved vengeance, he was honestly a pretty fun guy to hang out with.

“Oh my god, Steve. Would you let go already?” The giant toddler had grabbed hold of their blue goose-down comforter, and, every time that Bucky yanked, Steve was yanking the comforter right along with him. Bucky pulled even harder, because the mother fucking Winter Soldier doesn’t lose at tug-of-war; even if his badass metal arm sucks! He had Steve halfway off the bed, but the little shit was spreading out his arms and using his six foot reach to dig his fingers into the sides of the mattress. “Steve! Let go! I swear to god! You didn’t see me complaining when I turned one-hundred this year! I blew those candles out with a big ol’ smile! Even the ones that I had to blow out twenty times, thanks to your deep metaphorical symbolism! You’re gonna rip the mattress, and if you fuck up my comforter, there _will_ be hell to pay! Jesus! It’s not even your birthday, dipshit! Your birthday was _four days_ ago!”  

Steve gained back two inches (just by flexing his biceps) as he groaned, “You’re really sticking with the story that there’s a mandatory Saturday afternoon meeting with Ross, and the dress code is ‘swimming pool casual’?”

Fuck the arm. Tony was probably gonna have to take the whole thing off again anyway! Bucky wrapped the twitchy thing over top of his other hand and gave one final yank, pulling Steve completely off the bottom of the bed so fast that he landed face first on the carpet with a thud. Damn right! Take that, Whiny Steve! Even though Bucky’s spine was on fire (or maybe because it was), he held onto Steve’s legs and towed him backwards because he was _supposed_ to be a dick to Steve now. It was a mandatory part of their new ‘healthier relationship’.

“Ow, you fucker!” Steve yelled.

Bucky snickered at that. Also part of their new ‘healthier relationship’ were a couple of new and improved, emotionally touching pet names. Evidently, Steve had interpreted ‘we need to move forward and leave the past behind’ as ‘I can’t call Bucky a ‘jerk’ anymore, so ‘fucker’ is the perfect alternative’.

Chuckling, Bucky hauled him backwards another six inches. “It’s not a story, Steve. Ross is trying something new during meetings. Tony told me that Ross has some new goals to improve team morale. There was some sort of memo about fostering teamwork and working on creating a less stressful vibe whenever the latest big bad shows up and threatens the existence of the human race. When Tony was messing around with my arm this morning, I saw a whole team of people carrying commercial blenders and big bowls overflowing with strawberries and limes into the conference room. I’m assuming that Ross is planning to make everyone really strong daiquiris before he begs for our help...or tries to arrest us...you can never tell which direction things are gonna go with him.”

Digging in with his thighs, which were the strongest part of Bucky’s body at the current moment (even _with_ the new line of scar tissue running up his inner thigh from the fancy, near fatal stab wound), he used their power to lug Steve backwards. Bucky’s thighs did their duty and Steve’s desperate grabs for the dresser and the rug failed utterly. He’d almost made it through the bedroom door with his temperamental non-birthday birthday boy when Bucky remembered his backpack. “Hold up, Whiny Steve. Assume the wheelbarrow position. You gotta grab that bag.”

Bucky started pushing forward without waiting for Steve to follow the order. He might have given the poor guy a little forehead rug burn before he finally got with the picture. Visions of butterfly bandages, cotton swabs dripping with rubbing alcohol, wadded up tissues shoved deep into bloody nostrils, and scraped knuckles fixed with gentle kisses automatically jumped into his head...but this was _now_ , and it was a tiny bit of rug burn, and it was funny...Bucky was _allowed_ to think it was funny now, so he didn’t apologize.

While Bucky was busy convincing himself _not_ to feel bad, Steve pushed up on his arms and every beautiful muscle in his back flexed and undulated as he moved forward. If they weren’t already twenty minutes late, Bucky would have dropped Steve’s legs right then and there and climbed on top of that whiny pile of sexiness. Maybe it was time to schedule their first ‘Steve’s Saturday Night Spanking’ session since…Bucky swallowed, feeling the soggy skin of his back splitting open with each vicious crack of the whip; the breeze of each resounding slap whizzing through the air as Yegor swung his arm….dammit! Bucky tried to back his brain up, because dammit, dammit, dammit! Life wasn’t as easy as a playful swat to Steve’s butt anymore. Oh, who the fuck was he kidding? It never had been.

Steve balanced on one arm, grabbing Bucky’s bag as he yelled, “We’re not even working for Ross right now! Ross wants to throw me in prison for treason, not make me strawberry daiquiris! You’re so full of shit.”  

Yeah, he was. But he was trying not to be.

“This new outlaw persona of yours makes your birth date even more fitting. Did you know that every single person who picked up the quill to sign the Declaration of Independence was committing treason?” Bucky tried to turn Steve around in the tight space, lifting his hips even higher as he tried to get them past the dresser, but Steve put on the brakes.

“Why am I letting you walk me around the bedroom like a wheelbarrow?” Steve paused for a long second, then laughed and wiggled his ankles to try to get free.

“I dunno, I was just gonna see how long I could keep it going. That was over a minute and I’m pretty impressed with myself, I’ve gotta say.” Dropping his feet, Bucky went to snatch the bag off Steve’s arm because he really had to get things moving. They were late, late, late and the guest of honor was sprawled out on the floor in his underwear. “Listen, Stevie, everyone was far too concerned with _my_ health and wellbeing to pay any attention to _your_ birthday this year. In fact, my somewhat miraculous recovery trumped the entire Independence Day celebration all across the broad stripes _and_ the bright stars of the good ol’ US of A. Fireworks from sea to shining sea were cancelled, there was no rocket’s red glare, no bombs bursting in air, because, yours truly, Bucky Barnes, was finally able to stand on my own two feet and stroll outta that hospital after my self-inflicted torture party. Your birthday just wasn’t a priority in 2017. Stop being so conceited.”

Steve rolled over onto his back, and, if he didn’t look so frustrated, Bucky might say that he looked a little bit hurt. Perfect! Just the thing he’d been going for…

But then, when Bucky tried to tug the strap of the backpack, his perfect plan went to complete shit as the zipper pulled open, letting a single incriminating item escape; one bottle of sunscreen destroying his perfect plan when the picture of the little girl in blond pigtails, with a dog yanking her bathing suit down to reveal her pasty white butt, landed face up on the carpet. Coppertone didn’t even use that classic logo anymore! Bucky had to ask FRIDAY to track down a vintage one on eBay, then he’d used a funnel to fill it with Banana Boat SPF 120 so Steve didn’t turn into a big red lobster. It was the perfect joke to make fun of Steve’s lily white Irish skin as Bucky slathered the white sunscreen all over his back: ‘Hey, Steve, let’s pull down your swimsuit so I can rub this all over your tiny white ass...that’s what the directions say to do…look at the picture!’ Plus, it was a thoughtful necessity because, yeah, the serum might heal Steve quickly whenever he forgot his daily SPF, but it didn’t keep his skin from burning in the first place, and, well, Bucky had _very specific_ plans to put his hands all over said skin later tonight. But now, Bucky’s meticulously executed ‘get laid insurance’ had unceremoniously dropped onto the carpet and that Coppertone baby’s butt landed right in front of Steve’s face, and all was lost. Fuck.

Steve was giving him the stare of disappointment.

“Umm…” Bucky tried to salvage it. He was a top notch super soldier, he could fucking salvage a sunscreen disaster. “Ross said we’re meeting on the balcony, and, baby, I know how easy you burn...” Bucky lunged for the zipper, but Steve gave the bag a big enough yank in the other direction that _everything_ tumbled out: two pair of cheap plastic sunglasses with patriotic stars on one half and patriotic stripes on the other; courtesy of Sam, who’d picked them up on clearance from the little gas station towards Dolgeville for a dollar-ninety-nine (he’d made Bucky pay him back), the hilarious red and yellow umbrella hat that Tony’d handed off to Bucky this morning with a wink, two extra tank tops that Bucky had carefully rolled up into cotton burritos tucked neatly into the bottom of the bag in case they got wet (now unceremoniously unrolling across the floor), and, finally, the box that Bucky’d carefully wrapped in grey and black paper last night, getting the corners lined up just right despite the spasms. Double fuck.

Suddenly, Steve let go of the bag, and Bucky stumbled backwards into the wall. He’d totally done that on purpose! Bucky could tell by Steve’s ‘stubborn face’ which was out in full force.

Bucky put his on too.

The stubborn lasted for over two minutes, until Steve stubbornly said, “I thought you weren’t going to lie to me anymore.”

Low blow. Take one point off Steve’s scorecard and give Bucky five minutes to get the feeling back in his nuts. Shaking his head, Bucky started shoving everything back in the bag, _not_ carefully rolling up the tank tops into cute little burritos as he growled, “You know what, Steve? I don’t think a surprise party counts as lying.”

“See! I _knew_ you were throwing a party!”

Well, shit. That was some straight up Black Widow manipulation right there, and Bucky had fallen for it completely. Steve was smugly staring up at him with his hands casually thrown behind his head and a big shit eating grin on his face.

Bucky kept his stubborn up, even though Steve was laughing, as he jammed the rest of the stuff back into the ‘Ruined Surprise Pool Party Bug Out Backpack’, snapping, “Proud of yourself? Ruining surprises makes your day?”

“Oh, c’mon, baby. Don’t be mad.” Steve sat up and grabbed at Bucky’s knees.

“Notice that I am _not_ putting this present back in the bag! Do you see this?” Bucky made a point of throwing the box into the corner behind their fake plant. “Wonder who was that for? Hmmm, lemme think. Not _you_ , that’s for damn sure.” He probably shouldn’t have thrown that. It was a new iPhone 8, not even available until the fall, and Bucky had most likely cracked the fucking screen. Bucky tried to shake Steve off as he furiously tried to zip the backpack, but one of the goddamn tank tops was sticking out the side and now he’d pulled the fucking zipper too hard and the fabric was stuck in the teeth! God dammit!

Steve stretched out an arm and took the bag out of Bucky’s pissed off hands, setting the ruined surprise party supplies next to him before guiding Bucky into his lap. “Hey, hey, would you come here?”

Part of Bucky wanted to tell Steve to fuck right off, but the other part...the part that he was learning would always be part of his DNA no matter how hard he tried to ignore it...won out. Stupid genetic predisposition to always be a sucker for Steve! Setting all of his anger to the side with the cheap sunglasses, Bucky knelt down on top of him and rested his arms on Steve’s shoulders. Was it ‘healthy’? Was it ‘unhealthy’? Bucky didn’t fucking know anymore.

“You sure that present isn’t for me?” Steve kissed the middle of Bucky’s chest, taking the time to ghost his nose over Bucky’s nipple before nibbling on the point where his pec connected to his shoulder. “Hmm?”

Bucky blew out a long raspberry breath because he couldn’t stay mad. He never could, even when he _should_.

After everything they’d been through in the last year, in the last seven months since he’d come out of cryo in Wakanda, in the almost three-and-a-half months since they’d come back to the compound, but especially in the seventeen days since he was ‘kidnapped’ in Kazakhstan, or, more so, in the three days since they’d broken the red cotton bracelet and had decided to move forward together towards something altogether new, he was trying to let himself be mad at Steve. Bucky was trying so damn hard to tell the stubborn dipshit when he was being an asshole, he was attempting to call Steve out when he checked out of Bucky’s physical nightmare to wander off into his happy land of denial, or, even worse, to say something when Steve started disappearing into himself again. But the truth was, it was _hard_. Those fucking blue eyes and that cute little grin; it was like every ounce of Bucky’s resolve dissipated the second that Steve turned his biggest weapons in Bucky’s direction.

“We’re really late now, Steve. Can you _please_ just put on your swim trunks so we can go?”

Bowing his head so the top of his blond hair was mushed against Bucky’s abs, he muttered, “Buck, I don’t know if I’m ready for all that, and I don’t know if _you’re_ ready for all that. We’ve only been back at the compound for a few days, and you still don’t look so hot. I mean, you had a seizure this morning…”

“It was a _really little_ seizure, and now you’re just hurting my feelings. It’s really mean to say that you don’t think I’m hot anymore.” Bucky ran his metal fingers through the messy strands of Steve’s hair. It was a little longer than he usually kept it, and, if Steve was lounging around in bed all day like a total bum, it stuck up everywhere. It was pretty damn cute which made it almost impossible for Bucky to keep his hands out of it (aka genetic predisposition). Settling further into Steve’s lap, he went to ruffle the top and make it even more messy, but even something simple like that couldn’t go right. Bucky grimaced because the metal pinky didn’t bend the way his brain was telling it to; the instructions to move were originating from his mind, but the finger refused to slide into the strands in concert with the rest, raising higher with a slight vibration. But even worse was how the whole arm jerked as Bucky bent it inwards to pull through Steve’s hair, catching on a knot and pulling out several blond hairs. Dammit! He couldn’t even touch Steve without...

“Bucky…” Steve sounded worried as he looped his hands around Bucky’s wrists.

God, maybe Bucky needed to cut him some slack. Steve was trying, they _both_ were, but this honesty shit was hard. It was all so fucking hard.

“Fine. The truth is I still feel a little groggy, but I’m okay. Dr. Cho ran a new scan, and she and Tony think they’re getting closer to figuring out what the hell is causing everything to go haywire. Dr. Ncapayi is doing something with the neural analysis in Wakanda...I don’t know what exactly...it’s really hard to listen to all of it. I’m just waiting for them to tell me what to do...then I’ll do it. Steve, I really need to eat some delicious cheesy pizza, that’s slathered with sauce and far too many pepperonis, and have some serious summertime fun with you right now. So, will you _please_ just put your cute little ass into those wonderfully tight swim trunks and come with me? I swear to god it’s just a pizza party, very chill, just the normal crowd. Plus, I invited our new shrink in case something triggers our PTSD.” Bucky pulled Steve’s face up and pecked a sweet little kiss on his forehead (also a genetic predisposition).

Bucky moved his hands around Steve’s waist and the arm twitched. Steve had to feel it, but he didn’t say a word. Instead he went with, “PTSD is not a joke.”  

“I wasn’t making a joke.” The look Bucky gave Steve was dead serious, and he waited a few beats before he smiled. While his joke was hilarious, the _truth_ of the matter was that Bucky hadn’t been submerged in any type of water since Odessa. Even when he’d managed to get himself into the shower (which was a fucking chore), Bucky’d kept it to less than two minutes; making sure the water was hot enough to almost scald him and not even sticking his fingers into the stream to test the temperature until thick steam had completely covered the glass doors, the mirrors, and had filled the entire bathroom with a hot, hazy cloud.

The _truth_ was, every single fucking night since he’d first woken up in that hospital bed in the tower, Bucky had dreamt of putrid, freezing cold water lapping at his sides; vividly feeling it sucking into the open gaps in his shoulder and finding its way into the places where knives and whips had torn gaping holes in his skin. Every night, like a record on repeat, Bucky had seen his own sneering face, the one that had reflected back at him in 2017, aggressively holding his own head underwater in that silo. Doppelgangers in a dream, both set on destruction. Every fucking time, when Bucky felt the fire of the salt water filling his lungs in the dream, he’d woken up paralyzed in a puddle of cold sweat with the phantom feeling of metal fingers crushing the back of his skull lingering on his scalp. Every goddamn night, he’d contemplated shaking Steve’s shoulder after the feeling had returned to his limbs, to ask him for help, to ask him to listen, to ask him to curl around Bucky’s body until he felt warm again, but Bucky hadn’t done any of those things. Every single night, Bucky had chosen to let Steve sleep and had crawled out of the bed alone instead. Why? Because he was fucked up? Because the stupid affirmations didn’t work in the middle of the night? Because he wasn’t ready to deal with the implications of the dream? Who knew? Who fucking knew. But Bucky did know one thing for certain; every night he’d been spending at least an hour curled up in the corner of the bone dry shower, rubbing his human hand all over his body until he’d created enough friction to take away the chill, and afterwards Bucky had been staring at his reflection in the mirror, at all the cracks and crevices, and wondering why in the hell he’d left that cell? Why he hadn’t finished the mission?

So yeah, inviting Dr. Mayz was funny, but maybe Bucky had some less funny reasons too.

“Why are you wearing that shirt?” Steve stood up, hauling Bucky right along with him, then pointed accusingly at Olaf.

Took him long enough to notice. Geez. Bucky’s t-shirt was black and had cute little Olaf sitting in a snowbank with his adorable stick arms resting on his even more adorable snowball feet, and his goofy, lovable grin on full display. The blue and orange letters said, ‘Cool as Ice!’

Bucky’s only course of action in this situation? Deny. Adopt confused assassin demeanor. Innocently ask, “What shirt?”

Steve blinked and scrunched up his nose, groaning as he exchanged the boxers for swim trunks, tossed on a grey tank top, then snatched up the ‘Ruined Surprise Pool Party Bug Out Bag’ and strolled out the bedroom door. “C’mon, fucker,” he hollered back over his shoulder. “You better have told somebody to order me an extra large pineapple and ham pizza, because if you didn’t, I’m leaving immediately, coming back here to watch ‘The Walking Dead’ by myself, then jerking off three times in a row to that scene where Daryl rides his motorcycle down the middle of a deserted highway.”

“Aww, Stevie, you mean I ordered that leather vest off Amazon for nothing!?” Bucky snickered, because the box was supposed to ship next week. “C’mon, have some confidence in me, dipshit. I’m the world’s best life partner. Of _course,_ I told them to get your favorite pizza, even though it’s gross.”

Bucky chuckled as he realized that ‘punk’ had gotten its own upgrade, then paused to dig the most likely broken present out from behind the fake plant. Opening up his sock drawer, he shoved it deep inside, right next to his Sig-Sauer and the little silver box that Bucky had nervously hidden there yesterday. It wasn’t the right time, not yet. He’d thought that maybe it was...that new beginnings deserved new symbols...but perhaps he should wait until the rank water had stopped eating away at the edges of his mind? Or at least until he couldn’t feel the salt and piss filling up his lungs with every breath...

Rushing to catch up, Bucky yanked open the apartment door and ushered Steve through. It was a party...just pizza, beer, friends...all good things...all safe things. He took a big breath and put on a smile that was almost real. “Get a move on, birthday boy, you’re _way_ beyond fashionably late for your own party.”

 

  
**Princesses Lie too                                                           Saturday, July 8, 2017- 4:30ish pm**

Well, Bucky and Steve might be making a conscious effort to stop lying to everyone about everything, but Tony Stark obviously had no such aspirations. Everything that Bucky had told Steve about the party had been true (as far as he’d known) except for the theme of the soirée...but that was supposed to be a little inside joke, a good chuckle over cold beers next to the pool...it wasn’t supposed to be a full throttle ‘Frozen’ themed Princess Party! Jesus christ, Bucky’s eyeballs were overwhelmed by the barrage of party games, the freakin’ snow machine, a million plastic tiaras with sparkling pink ‘diamonds’ stuck on everyone’s heads, the zillion blue and white streamers criss crossing overhead, the bundles of balloons with silver strings floating all over the place, and the intricate paper snowflakes dangling from every available surface: trees, umbrellas, the overhang of the compound, and _Clint_ , who, for some reason, had several tied around his purple cast.

The sliding glass doors that led to the pool deck had all been pushed back into the wall, and, when he and Steve crossed over the threshold, Bucky wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry. Steve tripped forward over Bucky’s bare foot as everyone screamed, “Surprise”, and someone shot a high powered confetti cannon into the air. Taking in the entire scene, Bucky was leaning towards ‘cry’.

It wasn’t Steve’s overwhelmed expression, or the snowflake chaos falling through the air, that were making Bucky cringe. Nope. Not even close. The wince worthy culprits were the ice sculptures of all the ‘Frozen’ characters surrounding the giant lap pool, which, technically, shouldn’t even be called a _lap pool_ since the thing was four lanes wide and eight feet deep at one end. Blazing hot July sun, plus ice, equals rapidly melting sculptures; frightfully distorting and disfiguring their charming intent. Olaf had no nose, the reindeer had no antlers, the weird rock troll things looked like...rocks...and Elsa and Anna were transforming into faceless ice aliens ready to anally probe the party guests with icicles. But that wasn’t the worst of it...not by a long shot...

As the white and pale blue snowflake confetti floated through the air around Steve, and their friends cheered and clapped the birthday boy on his back, Bucky saw Steve’s eyes zero in on the end of the pool, where the biggest sculpture of all was towering above the whole fucked up scene. There, in all his glory, a ten foot tall Captain America stood, proudly holding the shield in front of his chest and looking towards the sky with a joyful Olaf propped on the shoulder. Bucky felt sick. He’d promised Steve pineapple and ham pizza...he’d _promised_ him...and all Bucky could see was overly sweet strawberry daiquiris and melting ice.

Bucky tried to take a deep breath to stop the unwelcome thoughts from flooding his mind, he really did, but they kept right on coming. What was Steve thinking about behind his tightly pinched eyebrows? The last time that he’d held that shield? How he’d thrown it hard enough to crack a man’s chest in half? Was he remembering how many locks he’d broken with the edge of that fucking shield when he was trying to get to Bucky in Odessa? How his viciousness was now threatening to put half the team behind bars with government locks that Steve wouldn’t be able to break? Was Steve staring up at the water dripping off the bottom of the icy shield, picturing the darkest corner of their storage room that was filled with dust and cobwebs that neither of them had bothered to brush away? That was where he’d stashed the shield; he’d jammed it unceremoniously behind the unfinished painting of Peggy Carter and had asked Bucky to cover them both with a sheet. When Bucky had asked about the painting, Steve had said he couldn’t get Peggy’s lips right. That had been the only explanation, and it had made his heart sink to throw the white cloth over her unfinished face; Bucky had thought her lips looked beautiful...but the specifics didn’t matter. Whatever Steve was thinking about, it wasn’t birthday cake and silly string, it wasn’t pineapple and ham pizza filling his stomach, and it wasn’t how horrible Clint sounded when everyone sang ‘Happy Birthday’. Steve’s jaw was tight as he glared at the replica of his face melting in the hot summer sun; confronting him with a version of Captain America whose sixty-eight years frozen in the Arctic hadn’t gone so well.

“That’s fucked up,” Steve muttered as Tony ran up and tried to jam a tiara on his head.

“It’s not my fault you were late!” Tony waved the sculpture off and huffed. “It looked great half an hour ago. Will you take this tiara! I can’t reach your head! You know I can’t fake being regulation superhero height in bare feet!” Tony made one last ditch attempt to push it over the birthday boy’s forehead, but Steve snatched it out of his hands and held the thing up in the air.

“You do realize that I was frozen in ice, right? It isn’t exactly something that I consider a joyful memory.”

Tony sucked a breath in between his teeth and squinted at the monstrosity. “Yeah, well, I didn’t really think about that very obvious and highly disturbing correlation until they showed up with it this morning. Hey, did you know they had to bring it up from New Jersey in a refrigerated semi truck? It took ten guys to set it up!” He made a valiant leap for the tiara and totally missed, huffing, “God, you’re no fun. Anyway, it wasn’t until I’d stepped back to appreciate the brilliance of my idea that I realized the eerie similarity to your unfortunate ‘I’m gonna turn myself into a Capsicle in this perfectly good plane that I have no reason for crashing’ event, but it was already too late.” Gesturing at the sculpture, whose nose fell off on cue, Tony chuckled. “You were already looming over the pool in all of your frozen self-sacrificial glory, the leader of the ice sculpture assembly gang was handing me something to sign...which I hate...I was already nervous and completely preoccupied about the special woman _not_ in my life, who shall not be named, and, to be honest, I might have thought it was a little bit funny.”

Natasha walked by and Tony ‘covertly’ stole the tiara off her head then gave it a little toss, miraculously landing it on top of Steve’s hair. He gave Bucky a thumbs up and a wink before nudging Steve’s shoulder. “Listen, I figured that Olaf taking a ride on your shoulder lent enough humor to the situation to overlook my accidental tribute to your…” He put his hand next to his mouth and whispered, “suicide attempt.”

Bucky was not amused, and, judging from the clenched fists, neither was Steve. Tony Stark wouldn’t be _Tony Stark_ if he didn’t keep right on going, and so he did, rambling, “I wonder if they drove the _actual_ frozen you in a refrigerated semi truck to your top-secret thawing station? Hey, FRIDAY,” he yelled, “call up Coulson and ask him for the nitty gritty on Steve’s ice cream truck transport from the north pole.”

Not funny, although now Bucky was curious...he also wondered if they’d used hair dryers...but that wasn’t the point. Tony was being an idiot, and Steve was supposed to be having fun. Stepping into Tony’s space, Bucky snapped, “I’m surprised you didn’t order up a Winter Soldier sculpture too, you know, to complete the set.”

He carefully put his hand on Steve’s arm because this was so much more than it was supposed to be.

“Oh, I did, Bucknado. It’s around the corner by the bouncy house.” Tony shook his head towards the gardens and got a big, snarky grin on his face.

Bucky’s muscles stiffened involuntarily, and he’d poked a finger into Stark’s shoulder before he’d even realized that his metal hand had moved. Tony winced when the twitch in the elbow hit, transferring into the muscles of his shoulder from the jerk of the metal, and the pain in Tony’s brown eyes transferred right back along the fried connections. When Tony stumbled backwards from that tiny touch, his eyes wide and glassy, Bucky realized that his reprieve from ‘drinking so fucking much’ had already ended. He’d made it thirteen days.

“Oh, c’mon Buckypop, I’m yankin’ your chain, well, not about the bounce house, although I’m pretty sure you two beefcakes exceed the weight limit.”

“Tony, why are you drunk...?” Bucky trailed off as he caught Tony’s elbow and scanned the crowd. “I thought Pepper was supposed to come.”

Oh shit. Every last drop of anger about the stupid ice sculpture disappeared immediately, because shit, shit, shit! Steve’s expression softened too, and he even reached up and adjusted the tiara properly in his hair, like a proper princess, because in that moment they both understood...

Bucky had only met Pepper a few times, but he’d liked her instantly. She was the kind of woman who took time out of her busy day to send a beautiful bouquet of yellow and orange Gerber Daisies to the man who’d driven Tony back over the edge, ruining their engagement. Bucky didn’t know the whole story, but, from what he’d gathered from Clint, he knew that after Tony and Pepper had gotten engaged last summer, things had been great for a while, then good, then bad, then great, then not great at all, and that she’d finally left sometime at the beginning of March. There were rumors that Tony hadn’t been able to let go of his rage towards The Winter Soldier (understandable), that he hadn’t been handling his fuck up with Parker very well (also understandable), that he’d been so angry with Steve that he hadn’t allowed anyone utter his name at the compound (overkill, but also understandable), and that all of that had led Tony back to old habits that Pepper had been too smart to put up with anymore. Once Clint had filled Bucky in on the whole sad situation, ‘ruining Stark’s engagement’ had been added to Bucky’s very long list of things he felt guilty about when it came to Tony Stark. But this morning, in the workshop, Tony had been talking about Pepper...he’d told Bucky that he’d bought Pepper her own bouquet of beautiful flowers, exotic ones, and that he was hoping it was gonna be a good day.

But Pepper wasn’t here.

“Steve,” Tony slurred. “ _My_ Disney Princess has decided to ruin my happy ending and run off to another decadent ball being thrown in a distant land far far away from me. I’d look for her glass slipper, but she didn’t even bother to show up in her pumpkin helicopter. But this party is not about me, Steve Rogers, this day is all about _you_ ! So, will you _please_ be a goddamn princess and smile or something, and will somebody _please_ bring our honored guest a fucking frozen drink!”

Tony yanked his arm out of Steve’s grasp, plastered a smile on his face, and offered up a salute before he pushed through the crowd towards the bar; towards something tangible that Tony knew would always be there for him... even when relationships fall apart, even when the people you love are murdered, even when best friends fall out of the sky, even when you try to be a better man and then fail...the escape of the alcohol would always be there. Jesus fucking christ, Bucky wished for some sort of happy ending...for somebody, _anybody_!

Before Bucky could say anything, Wanda and Natasha had pulled Steve into a big hug full of kisses and smiles, and he took a few steps backwards; the texture under his feet changing from wood to tile. Cold tile, even in the sun. Stopping, Bucky’s eyes tracked down his legs to the white tiles covered in tiny drops of water surrounding his feet...drip drip drip on his face as he drowned underneath the merciless cloth...drip drip…

“You’re gonna come dance with me, right? Or are you gonna stand here and let me make a fool out of myself all by my lonesome?”

“What?”

“Dude, you’ve got that look again.” Clint put a strong hand on Bucky’s wrist and nodded at the dance floor. “C’mon, I’ve got some ladies who’ve been waiting for almost an hour to get their hands on you.”

Water...his feet were dripping with it. Slow motion droplets running down his body in rivets...everywhere. Clint touched his arm again, shaking him, making the water change direction and fall. Clint was smiling somehow...despite being dead. Clint was fucking dead and Bucky was bleeding out in the water...

Shaking his head hard to the left to try to stop the shivers creeping up his back, Bucky blinked hard...then again...and again... until he saw a bunch of blue and white balloons gently swaying against a backdrop of trees. He was at a party. The sun was hot on his back. Clint was alive. Clint was smiling. Bucky was dry. Clint was asking him to dance. He was supposed to be having fun…

“Buddy, hey, hey,” Clint soothed. “Take a few more breaths. Slow it down. Slow it down and I’ll introduce you to Lucy. Get your mind off things. Think you can handle that?”

“Lucy?”

“Yeah, Lucy. Stop stalling. I know you can shake your ass, Bucky.”

“It’s not that…”

“I know,” Clint interrupted. The look in his eyes assured Bucky that he _did_ know...he understood so completely that he was trying to pull Bucky out of the loop.

Bucky slowly swiveled his head towards the dance floor. Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, blue and purple lights were flashing crazy snowflake patterns onto the white wood that ran down the side of the building, and the DJ was wearing some sort of light up snowman helmet. It was downright creepy. People were dancing like total fools, acting like it was four in the morning and they were closing down the hottest club in New York City; laughing, spinning, questionably grinding, trying to twerk (operative word: _trying_ ). Marco, the head gardener, with his sun wrinkled skin and beat-up baseball hat, was teaching some classic Salsa moves to Melissa, the Director of Communications. Ronnie, the master of the vegetables, seemed happy dancing all by himself, executing some very impressive moves that Bucky would have never expected from a guy who spent his days picking ripe cantaloupes off the vine. Dr. Cho and the new ‘expert therapist’, that Tony’d hired to help with all the fucking trauma, were working some very basic white girl club moves, despite Dr. Mayz looking like a professional doctor version of J.Lo. And, as promised, a group of young women, who Bucky recognized from the engineering crew, were eyeing him shyly from the corner near the melting statue of Kristoff.

“Clint, I don’t know if I…”

“Real talk. Here it comes. Straight from the heart.” Clint pointed right in the middle of the horseshoe shaped dick that Bucky had drawn on his cast with a Sharpie. Steve had tried his best to turn it into a tree, but now it just looked like a horseshoe shaped dick with leaves. Bucky had no idea if Clint was pointing at it for emphasis or if it was an accident, but he didn’t have time to ponder, because Clint was on a roll. “Shit sucks, Bucky. You almost died. I almost died. Everyone we care about is probably going to jail. Tony’s about to blackout. Steve’s a fucking mess. But you know what? Dancing with those girls will cheer you up. Doing the hustle while you’re surrounded by fucking snowflakes and showing those young ladies, who work damn hard to make sure that our Quinjets don’t fall out of the sky, an excellent time is exactly what the doctor ordered.”

Swallowing, Bucky eyed the silver tiara on Clint’s head. It was missing two of it’s plastic pink gems, but Bucky still liked it. It softened him, putting some of Clint’s inner kindness on the outside for everyone to see. Bucky was so damn lucky that he got to see that part of Clint all the time.

Steve’s voice floated over Bucky’s shoulder, and he turned to see Steve authentically laughing with Sam, Natasha, and Rhodey; tipping back a bottle of Corona with a lime shoved in it. Gross. Corona legitimately tasted like skunk piss, but Steve seemed happy enough chugging it down. Actually, Steve seemed super happy in a all encompassing kinda way. Maybe Tony hadn’t been completely off base with this party after all? Maybe Bucky should try that...the happy thing? It seemed like it might be preferable to visceral torture flashbacks. Okay. He could do this. Happy. Dancing. Turning back towards the scary snowman DJ, Bucky’s eyes landed on a petite girl with a black, curly ponytail and denim cutoffs. She looked like she was about to hyperventilate. Yeah, Lucy, join the club. Clint, on the other hand, looked ready to shake it.

Loving a Russian spy must be rubbing off on Clint, because he’d been keeping the shit about Kazakhstan close to his chest. The tough guy act had been in play ever since Bucky’d been resurrected from his drug induced stupor in the hospital; Clint delivering lines like, ‘It’s all part of the job’ and ‘You know I’m too tough to go out like that’ like a pro, but Bucky knew that falling three stories off the roof of a fucking building had taken a toll. It would on anybody. Well, except Steve. Or Bucky. Or Natasha...dammit...it would take a toll on any person who was one-hundred percent normal. Jesus.

Then there was Natasha. That was a whole other story. Even though she could walk off a fall like that, Clint taking the plunge was taking it’s own toll on her. Out of all of them, Natasha was the best at hiding things, but Bucky knew her tells. He’d been there when they’d tried to break her of them: the hint of a smile when there was nothing to smile about...the slight pull to her cheeks when she was worried...keeping her eyelids closed a fraction of a second too long before she looked up to meet your eyes. Bucky knew them all, and, every time Clint winced or bumped his cast, they betrayed her.

Natasha was shaking a sparkler in front of Steve, the little bits of fire exploding in front of his face before fizzling out instantly when they landed on the wood, and Sam had just cracked another joke that had made everyone laugh. Watching Steve enjoying the simplicity of a child’s firework, Bucky knew that Clint was one-hundred-percent right; this was a _party_ ...pizza, beer, friends...it was supposed to be _fucking fun_! Pizza, beer, friends…he let it echo in his head a few times before nodding at Clint.

“Okay, introduce me. But she’s not allowed to grab my ass.”

Chuckling, Clint clapped Bucky on the back with his good arm and said, “Not everyone’s a nymphomaniac like you. You’ve made it pretty clear in the last few months, to pretty much _everyone_ around here, where your loyalties lie. She just wants to do the cupid shuffle or something.”

Out of nowhere, Scott jumped in front of them, exclaiming, “Can you believe this DJ? I mean, I thought it was a joke at first, like it was gonna be one or two songs, but this dude has kept it going, man. He’s got House Frozen, Trap Frozen, Hip Hop Frozen, Salsa Frozen…”

“What are you talking about?” Bucky really liked Scott, but it was hard to keep up sometimes.

“Dude,” Clint snickered. “Do you not hear that he’s playing a drum and bass version of ‘Do You Want to Build a Snowman’?”

No, Bucky had _not_ realized that, but now that he had, he wished that he hadn’t. This shit was gonna be stuck in his head for god knows how long. Probably forever. Pizza, beer, fun...he could do this. Taking a step towards the dance floor, Bucky gave fun a try. “I’m gonna pretend that I didn’t hear that and go try my best to have a good time. Are you assholes coming, or what?”

  
  
Lucy had been very respectful of Bucky’s ass so far. There’d been zero butt grab attempts, and she’d smiled and laughed as they’d danced for at least half an hour. Clint had been right, as usual. It felt fantastic to just relax and dance, and, as he rocked her to the surprisingly awesome ‘Frozen’ remixes, Bucky forgot all about the pain in his body, the glitches in the arm, and the bigger glitches in his mind, and just _moved_. She was a small girl, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulders, and, when Bucky pulled her back against him, he realized that he hadn’t danced with someone with tiny bones in a very long time.

Allowing his arms to wrap around her waist and his chin to rest on Lucy’s shoulder, Bucky’s eyes drifted towards Steve. He was in the middle of a big crowd of people, every single one of them wearing a Frozen t-shirt, juggling a real snowball back and forth in his hands and laughing.

 

> _"We can’t have a snowball fight inside the house, Buck! Your ma will kill us!”_
> 
> _“She’s already mad about you smokin’ up the place, what’s a little snow gonna hurt?”_
> 
> _The blizzard had covered the windowsill_ _in a matter of minutes, and Bucky scraped up a big handful, packing it between_ _his hands_ _as he grinned at_ _Steve. The little bugger was shaking his head, making his hair flop over his eyes._
> 
> _Steve tried to look mad when he hissed, “Don’t you dare.”_
> 
> _“Don’t I dare what? Have a little fun on my birthday?” Bucky tossed the snow back and forth and wondered how hard he should_ _blast it across his bedroom. Fast or slow pitch? What speed would inspire Steve to throw one right back? The second that Steve took_ _a step towards him, Bucky chose fast and nailed the center of Steve’s tiny chest, the impact exploding the snow all over the creaky_ _wooden floor._
> 
> _“Oh, now you’re gonna get it!” Steve laughed, making a run for the window._
> 
> _In that moment, Bucky knew that it was his best birthday yet._

The entire memory returned to Bucky in a flash, but it was different this time. The sinking feeling that he’d grown used to hadn’t arrived with it; no pain, pressure, disappointment, confusion...none of it. Bucky’s entire reaction to the full version of his fourteenth birthday coming back to him? He wanted to throw a snowball. God, he felt like singing, or spinning in a circle...something. Why was the memory of a snowball different than the red licorice? Bucky didn’t have a fucking clue.

Spinning Lucy around, Bucky smiled at her before bending down to kiss her cheek...the angle the same as when he used to bend down to kiss Stevie...and he allowed his lips to linger there for just a second; dropping his eyelids shut and losing himself in the muscle memory...seeing what would happen if he embraced the memory instead of shoving it away. Bucky could almost smell him; Ivory soap and a tiny hint of sweat wafting from the crook of his neck, just below his Adam’s apple, before Lucy’s giggle broke the illusion.

“Thank you, Lucy,” he managed, releasing her waist and meaning it, despite feeling dizzy. “I really loved dancing with you, but I think I should go see how the birthday boy’s doing.”

“You’re the sweetest thing! Thank _you!_ Wait ‘till I tell my cousin Freddie that Sergeant Barnes has some serious moves! He’s gonna be so jealous!”

She ran back towards her friends, and Bucky gave her a little wave. Ivory soap and snow... singing and spinning...taking a deep breath, Bucky glanced down at his Olaf shirt as he made his way towards Steve. Olaf, a frozen funny guy who needed his own little snow cloud to survive, a creature whose pieces were created by someone else’s hands, whose stick arms fell off on occasion, and who would turn into a puddle without an ice princess to keep his solid form intact. His t-shirt was a self-portrait. God, Bucky was fucked up.

Pausing, he tipped up his face toward the hot July sun and let it bear down on his skin. It was at least ninety-five degrees and only a few puffy clouds were passing overhead through the criss-crossed streamers, but Bucky could still feel it...the chill. It hadn’t left since the water. The salty ripples refracting off of his body at the bottom of that octagon had been far worse than the horrors of cryo sleep had ever been. At least the ice had always been fast; a few painful seconds and The Soldier would become solid...nothing...and every time The Soldier had regained consciousness his insides had already been thawed out; mushy and moving. But the water...well, the water had been different.

Bucky snatched his party backpack off the round table where he’d left it, digging around for something to make him feel more ‘party’, less ‘basket case’. Pushing past Scott and Tony, his hands finally found the cheesy sunglasses. Ugh, why hadn’t he packed a party whistle or a festive piñata that looked like a donkey? If Steve hit a piñata with a baseball bat, every piece of candy would probably disintegrate from the impact...which would be really fucking funny! But no, Bucky didn’t have something cool like a donkey in his backpack, he had some predictable cheap American Flag sunglasses, and he was gonna have to somehow make do with the party mediocrity. There were only a few people between the two of them, and, as soon as Bucky caught Steve’s eye, he tossed a pair through the air and loudly sang, “The bombs bursting through air, gave proof through the night, that our flag was still there…”

Steve caught them one handed, in perfect sync with the word ‘flag’, and snickered as Bucky shoved his own pair over his fucked up eyes. It was time to shut his shit down, at least for the afternoon, because the back and forth happening inside of his brain was making Bucky queasy. This was _Steve’s_ day...pizza, beer, friends.

“What happened to your snowball, Steve?”

Fuck.

Why the fuck did he say that?

He could see it in Steve’s eyes, the deep meaningful question resulting from Bucky’s stupid stupid stupid question: ‘Are you talking about a snowball, or are you talking about a _snowball_?’. But, in a show of solidarity, Steve shoved the dollar-ninety-nine shades onto his face before Bucky could see the full emotion. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Shake it off. Let it go. Oh, for fucks sake...did he really just think that? Whatever, Elsa. Pizza, beer, friends…

“Hey, can I get you guys a drink or something?” Scott suddenly popped up next to them. He seemed to do that a lot. “Long Island? Rum and Coke…”

“Coca-Cola,” Steve interrupted.

“Um...that’s not how you say it. But sure, it’s your birthday, so can I get you a Rum and _Coca-Cola_ …” Scott squinted his eyes like he’d just said the stupidest thing in the world. He had, but he kept on rolling. “Strawberry daiquiri? Another beer? Sex on the beach?”

Sam let out a big belly laugh and blurted, “Careful what you offer these two, Scott. They’re both kinky as hell.”

No debilitating flashbacks about H2O in horror form _or_ snowball form were gonna stop Bucky from responding to that opening. “See, that’s a myth,” Bucky started, throwing an arm over Steve’s shoulder. “Steve here’s the kinky one. Always has been, always will be. I’m just along for the very, very, very interesting _ride_.” He winked at Scott, which was probably a little over the top pervy, but whatever. “If it were up to me, gentlemen, every time that Steve and I made love it would be slow and sensual, and we’d move together as one being atop hundreds of rose petals with the smoothest R &B playing in the background; saxophones, moody trumpets, maybe a hint of sexy riffing...oh, and _candles_...there would be _so_ _many_ white candles surrounding the bed and casting a soft glow across the scene as I caressed Steve’s face and whispered how beautiful…”

“Man, would you stop,” Sam interrupted just as Steve snorted.

Scott started backing up, _very slowly_ , and stuttered, “I’m, um, I’m gonna just get us some nice, normal, non sexual beers. R&B? Really? No, don’t answer that. I don’t wanna know.”  

Steve quickly wrapped his arms around Bucky’s middle, the motion only making his side twinge a little bit. Stab wounds were stupid. Maneuvering Bucky around to face the pool, Steve rested his chin on Bucky’s shoulder. Funny, how easily they fit together in this configuration now. Bucky leaned over to breathe him in, but there was no Ivory soap this time, just Eucalyptus and...fuck! Bucky’d forgotten to make Steve put suntan lotion on!

Pointing at icy Captain America, Steve shivered. “That’s the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen.” It was melting fast enough that a river of water was pooling at it’s feet, running across the tile, then cascading in it’s own little waterfall into the pool.

“More horrifying than my arm almost burning off?” Bucky snickered, but he could still taste it... the smell stuck to the back of his throat.

Sam swiveled his head with his own version of Steve’s disappointed stare (it was contagious), and Steve let go of Bucky’s waist. Well, that was quick.

“Still too soon?” Bucky shrugged as Steve walked around to join disappointment row.

He really needed that piñata.

“You promised that torture jokes were off the table indefinitely.” Steve pushed the sunglasses to the top of his head, knocking his tiara to the ground behind him. That wasn’t how princesses were supposed to act!

“What if that’s how I deal with it, Steve? You promised that you wouldn’t tell me how to feel!”

Stare down number two of the day commenced. Actually...scratch that...they’d stared each other down in the bathroom this morning too. Steve had sweetly come up behind Bucky in the mirror, pressing their bodies together, then had run his fingers over the thick stubble covering Bucky’s jaw. Nibbling at Bucky’s earlobe, he’d whispered all sweet and innocent, ‘You gonna shave this morning, baby? I remember how much you used to like a close shave. Do you want me to….’. Steve had stopped mid-sentence, and the kiss that he’d been about to plant on Bucky’s jaw had never landed.

The grizzled stubble that had reflected back in the mirror was thicker than anything that Bucky’d been able to grow during the war, and the curly brown chest hairs had already begun filling back in from the slices and words; connecting to a new trail that ran down the center of Bucky’s stomach to his cock. When Steve had run his fingers through Bucky’s chest hair in a cheap hotel somewhere in London, the tiny curls had only been growing across his pecs. Bucky remembered it clearly, the way Steve’s nose had felt when it had moved from the hairy parts to the smooth skin of his belly. The contrast had been intoxicating. It seemed that Zola’s serum, without the pesky interruptions of war rations and cold storage, had been formulated to make Bucky a much furrier man.

Looking into the mirror, with Steve’s hand still planted on his stubbly cheek, Bucky had seen no evidence of the person who’d once enjoyed Stevie’s slender fingers dragging a sharp blade across his skin...and he hadn’t said a word. Stubborn Steve had stood there staring at him through the reflection, and Stubborn Bucky had stared right back. Four long minutes until the towel that Bucky had wrapped around his hips had slipped right off, and well, it was pretty hard to win a staring contest when your dick decided to join the competition.

They’d been at this new honesty thing for roughly seventy-two hours and they were already on stare down number three just _today_. Bucky had lost count of the grand total somewhere around forty...

“So,” Sam interrupted...well, interrupted the tension anyway... “Did you guys go see your new therapist this morning?”

Scott moseyed back up juggling four beers in his hands, took one look at the scene and mumbled, “I’m, uh, gonna get myself another beer. I’ll be over here if you guys are looking…” He started backing up, and Bucky didn’t blame him one bit.

“I made an _appointment_ to see the therapist.” Steve stood up taller and slid the sunglasses back down like a patriotic boss.

“I invited her to the party.” Bucky pointed to the pool, where Dr. Mayz was now floating around on a pool noodle next to Maria Hill, both of them carefully balancing wine spritzers above the water.

“Well,” Sam sighed, nodding his head in that way that meant ‘this is such bullshit, but I’m just gonna smile and nod’. “That’s a shitty start, but at least it’s a start.”

“Steve! The man of the hour! Our birthday boy...why’d you take off your tiara?” Tony bent over and grabbed it off the ground, thrusting it at Bucky’s head instead. “Here, Buckypunzel, it goes better with your luscious locks anyway. Next time you let yourself get captured, just stick your hair out the window of your torture chamber so Steve can climb right up and rescue you!”

Bucky carefully slid the tiara onto his head, and if he’d been wanting one this whole time, he wasn’t gonna admit that shit ever. But before Bucky could bask in his newly acquired Princess Power, Tony shoved in front of him, wobbling a little on his bare feet as he yelled, “Hey, Steve, I got you a shirt! Scott! Toss me Steve’s shirt. On the table. No, the one in the blue box. No, the _other_ blue box. You’re getting warmer, warmer...no, no...colder! Jesus, Scott, it says ‘Princess Steve’ on it!”

“These _all_ say ‘Princess Steve’ on them!” Scott threw up his hands and Bucky snorted. It took Natasha, who’d leaned over Scott’s shoulder, less than a second to snatch up the one blue box and launch it through the air at Tony.

Somehow, Drunk Tony caught it; instantly ripping the paper off himself and flinging the pieces into the air with a flourish before flinging the box into a rose bush. “Here! Put this on, Steve! I had it custom made in size ‘extra large pectoral muscles’ just for you!”

Sam choked on his beer the second that Steve held it up, and, as Bucky pounded on his back to save him, he found himself in an interesting position: should he leap behind the DJ booth to hide out under DJ Ice Ice Baby’s turntables, or should he straight up high five Tony?

It had to be the high five, no question really, because Steve was holding up a white seventies style t-shirt that had red and blue stripes on the sleeve and a blue stripe around the collar. But that wasn’t the best part. Not by a long shot. Steve was looking at the back, but Sam, Bucky, and the rest of the party had a crystal clear view of the front. The DJ legit scratched his record, because on the front, in huge red, white, and blue letters, it read, ‘For Most Powerful Power Bottom’. Steve had pushed the sunglasses back on top of his head and was squinting at the back like he was trying to decode a message, and Bucky waited for it… ‘cause it was gonna be so fucking good! Tony was standing just behind Steve’s shoulder making the most ridiculous faces, tapping his fingers together like a mad scientist, and bouncing on his toes…wait for it...wait for it...

Flipping the shirt around, Steve showing the crowd the words, ‘The Winter Soldier tied with Captain America’, and Bucky doubled over laughing, trying really hard not to piss his pants. Holy shit! Tony had remembered, and, not only that, he’d actually fucking done it! A stupid joke in a hospital room brought to life in full technicolor at a ‘Frozen Princess Pool Party’! Bucky decided to go in for the high five!

“Oh my god.” Steve was in some sort of a shocked trance, rendering him powerless to do something logical like crumbling the shirt up, and he just stood there with his mouth wide open as the DJ dropped the chorus of ‘Back That Azz Up’.

They might not be ‘out, out’ to the world...there’d been no fancy press conference with far too many microphones, no big announcement of their ‘gayness’ so that Fox news could assemble a panel of ‘experts’ to scrutinize Captain America’s entire life; searching for evidence of his proclivity for the booty, no ‘scandalous’ photo of them making out behind the shield after they’d saved the Earth plastered all over TMZ...they’d just kinda done their thing. The compound staff had always respected Steve and they’d quickly grown to respect Bucky too, so it was pretty much a non-issue. Everyone that _knew_ them, _knew_. But, boy oh boy, they definitely didn’t know the very intimate information that was very clearly spelled out for all to see in big block letters.

There was a pause, the song declaring, “Girl, you looks good, won’t you back that azz up. You’re a fine motherfucker, won’t you back that azz up. Call me Big Daddy when you back that azz up…”

“Hey, Buck,” Steve lifted his chin, and the tension surrounding them doubled; everyone waiting to see if they should laugh or run.

“Yeah?”

“Make sure I call you ‘Big Daddy’ later.”

Jaws dropped, a beer dropped, the DJ dropped the needle on a new record, and Bucky...well, Bucky got horny.

Sam was the first one to break the t-shirt spell and legitimately doubled over with knee slapping laughter, granting the entire party permission to whoop, yell, and smile.

“Scott, hey!” Tony stumbled into Sam’s side and yelled, “Red box! Red Rover, Red Rover, bring the red box over! Red, Scott!”

“Tony, you’re completely wasted.” Steve had thrown the shirt over his shoulder, and the sexy look he was shooting Bucky was downright naughty. Yeah, Steve had gotten horny too.

“There are degrees of wasted, Steve. Normally, at your average ‘Pretty Princess Pool Party’ I’d already be naked...or wearing my Iron Man suit...or naked _and_ wearing my Iron Man suit...but the point... _the point,_ Steve...is that if I was _completely_ wasted I’d be droppin’ sick beats with DJ AM. He’s dead you know. It really tore me up. Depression plus drugs. Bad news.” Tony hiccuped as Scott handed him the correct box. “Here, Buckyboo, you get to be the Red Power Ranger. He’s the leader you know, wink, wink.”

Tony tossed the box at Bucky’s left side, and he fucking missed. Of course he did. Sam made the catch behind him.

“Oh, I almost forgot that I destroyed your arm... _again_... and, to make things more interesting, I melted a few key neural connections in your brain this time. Hey! I should have made you a shirt that says ‘Tony electrocuted the fuck out of me and all I got was this lousy t-shirt’.”

Bucky reached out with the arm that was capable of following orders and said, “Tony, it’s okay. Let’s just have fun…”

...pizza, beer, friends...

“Damn right! Fun is the name of the game!” Tony rolled his eyes and grabbed the present out of Sam’s hands, tearing the paper off and throwing the box into the pool. “Look, I made a boat!” Thrusting the shirt at Bucky, he yelled, “I got you one to match! Can’t have a real Power Bottom Battle for the championship belt if you’ve only got one competitor. C’mon, c’mon, back that azz up, put them on! Put them on!”

“Oh, bro, you’ve gotta put that on right now.” Clint clapped Bucky on the back, and Bucky knew damn well what he was doing; trying to keep things smooth, easy, chill, and preventing the party from crashing in a big fireball of drama. Bucky loved him. He did. Clint was the best new person in his life...the voice of reason that grounded him here; the lucky jab that reminded Bucky that he could still bleed like everyone else. And not only during overblown dramatic situations with terrorists, aliens, and determined men set on revenge, but during normal everyday shit like dropping a gallon of milk on your big toe. Clint helped Bucky to be human. Smiling at Bucky encouragingly, Clint nodded before hollering, “Nat, grab the phone! We’ve gotta get a picture of this!”

Clint was right, so Bucky winked at Steve before carefully pulling the Olaf shirt over his head. Instantly he felt everyone staring at the new ropes of pink and red scar tissue that had been rebuilding themselves thicker and thicker; the cells desperately trying to hold onto the goddamn metal arm. Sure, this version might be lighter and stronger than the old one, and some of the new pieces that Tony’d been swapping in over the past week were even lighter than the ones from Wakanda, but that didn’t mean that Bucky’s skin was magically any stronger. Even the serum was having trouble putting things back together this time. Not that the connection between metal and flesh had been pretty before, but now it was a goddamn horror show. Bucky sensed each person looking, judging; a crowd full of eyes scrutinizing the faint criss-crosses that covered his entire back, each healing line a brutal declaration of what he’d done to himself. Lucy gasped when she looked at his chest, taking a step backwards in the crowd. Yeah, most guys hangin’ around the pool probably didn’t have the remnants of the word ‘pay’ carved across their ribs. Maybe she was gasping because she was shocked, or maybe because she’d just realized that she’d been dancing with a monster? But none of that mattered right now, let them look, let them see who he really was...

Steve was looking too, but it wasn’t at the broken pieces trying to figure out how to fix them, he was looking right into Bucky’s eyes...telling him with one glance that he was proud of him for standing there in his own skin. God, that was such a fucking relief. Tossing his good buddy Olaf over Clint’s purple cast, Bucky pulled Tony’s magnificent gift over his head, and damn, if it didn’t fit like a glove! Tony had switched the text on Bucky’s shirt so the front read, ‘The Winter Soldier tied with Captain America’, and oh, wasn’t that fucking clever? It was gonna make the perfect picture, from either direction. Tony Stark...always thinking.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Natasha taking a million pictures, capturing the amused expression on Steve’s face and the bunny ears that Tony was making behind his head. “Hey, Rogers,” she chuckled, “looks like you’re losing already.”

“I’m not losing anything.”

“Well, you’re definitely not winning,” Sam quipped. “I think refusing to put on the shirt means that you forfeit the title.”

Cue stare down number four...a playful stare down...but still a stare down.

Handing Tony his sunglasses (which he immediately put on), Steve stripped off his t-shirt. Lucy gasped again, obviously for an entirely different reason, the same reason that _all_ of the women around them were suddenly drooling...and yeah, Ronnie the Gardener...Bucky took note of that lip bite. Once Steve had yanked Tony’s shirt down over his chest, Bucky started drooling right along with them, because if Bucky’s was fitting him like a regular glove, Steve’s was grabbing hold of every muscle like the surgical variety; the latex kind that you needed the powder to slide on. Delicious _and_ drool worthy, for sure.

Steve puffed out his chest, and Bucky puffed his out even further. They stepped right up against one another, leaving less than an inch between them. Stare down number four had no end in sight.

“You know I’m gonna win,” Bucky whispered.

“I don’t know about that.” Steve raised his chin and tugged at the hem of Bucky’s shirt. “I’m not _letting_ you win anymore, that’s part of our new deal.”

The whiplash of it...the way that one sentence could take him from lusting at Steve’s body to the hairs standing up on the back of his neck in an instant...Bucky felt the snap in his spine. “Oh, you think you _let_ me win?”

 

> _...then finish it..._

Clint pulled on the back of Bucky’s swim trunks, muttering, “Uh, guys…”

“I think I remember something like that.” Steve leaned forward even further, the connection between their chests channeling the tension that was weirdly building between them. It was something new. Was this how telling the truth was supposed to feel?

“Scott!” Tony yelled it so loud that Bucky jumped. “Fetch the striped presents. All three, STAT. We’re about to have a Power Bottom Battle and it’s gonna ruin my carefully planned Princess Party!”

“Why do I have to keep getting the presents?”

Tony threw his arms up in the air. “Because you’re the low man on the Avenger totem pole! If Parker was here I’d make _his_ overenthusiastic prepubescent ass fetch the presents, but he’s too good and pure to hang out with the likes of us...well, _me_ actually...I’ll take the blame for my genetic similarities to Howard in the mentoring department. Actually, FRIDAY, check in on the little nugget. If I damaged Parker just like my dear old dad scarred me, he’s probably snorting coke off a hooker’s ass by now. I still can’t believe that ballsy kid had the nerve to turn his back on a nine million dollar spider suit to play with a Millennium Falcon Lego set that he got on clearance at Target!”

Scott stood his ground, ignoring Tony’s tirade completely. “Nope. I’m not getting them. No way. Not doing it.” Bucky was kinda proud of him.

But it wasn’t enough to ratchet down the tension, and Bucky poked Steve’s nipple through the tight fabric. “I think you’re confused about who was letting who win. I’m not buying that you _wanted_ to fall down that elevator shaft.”

“Hey, I don’t think the therapist would like this,” Sam interjected, moving up behind Steve.

“He’s right,” she yelled from her spot in the pool next to Maria. Bucky was pretty sure that she’d had more than her share of cocktails. Perhaps she was pre-gaming for their appointment on Monday?

The crowd around them had gone back to dancing, drinking, eating cupcakes, celebrating...or whatever else you do when you’re pretending that Captain America and The Winter Soldier aren’t about to throw down... and Bucky imagined Steve falling...they were _always_ fucking falling...even standing in the middle of soggy confetti snowflakes littered in paper snowdrifts on wet tile.  

“Oh, is that what you think, Buck?” Steve took a step backwards and gestured to his shirt, thug style…

 

> _...you think you can get away with stealing from the church? Is that what you think?..._

Bucky tried to fight it...the mix of emotions that he felt when things that were supposed to be new and fresh were overrun by moments long dead.

“I don’t think we’re talking about taking it up the azz anymore,” Tony laughed, falling into Natasha, who stepped sideways and let him fall on the ground. “Oh, Natasha,” he yelped, “betraying my trust again! I guess I shouldn’t be surprised...”

Pizza, beer, friends...pizza, beer, friends…

“Bucky, bro, back up,” Clint said quietly into the shell of his ear. “It’s okay.”

Pizza, beer, friends…

“I’m not backing up,” Bucky whispered to himself. He was fucking sick of backing up! Taking a deep breath, Bucky casually slid the sunglasses off his face with a smile. “I’m good, buddy. Let’s have some pizza, I’m starving.” He turned like he was gonna happily grab a giant slice of pepperoni pizza to shove in his mouth, or like he was gonna waltz over to the ice cold cooler to snatch out a frosty bottle of beer with his fucked up hand, or maybe like he was gonna have a good laugh with his fucked up friends...all smiles and easy peasy Princess Party etiquette... until Clint let down his guard and Sam stepped away from Steve’s side..

It took Bucky less than a second to pivot on his rear foot, spinning away from Clint to rush forward and slam into Steve low enough that the force drove him backwards. Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist...pushing pushing pushing until the wood changed to tile, until the tile got slippery, until their feet ground fresh paths through the snowflakes...until they were both falling through the air towards the water.

Sometimes you don’t understand why you do things until they’re over; moments dictated by irrational choice, decisions based on fear, rage, or even love...but this wasn’t one of those moments. As the blue water rushed towards them, their bodies intertwined in a mess of limbs, Bucky knew _exactly_ why he’d pushed them over the edge. Breaking the surface, the water folded up around them instantly, covering their heads as they sank to the bottom _together_ , and Bucky felt relief.

The water was cold, the water was all around him, sinking sinking sinking into his holes. He could taste the piss and blood in his nostrils and feel the salt as it burned the soft flesh of his insides...but Bucky didn’t feel the metal fingers holding him under and trying to finish what he’d started. He only felt Steve’s arms and legs tangling around him, and, when he opened his eyes, a flurry of bubbles filled his vision before the water began to clear. They sat there for a minute, frozen underwater and looking into one another’s eyes, gaining more understanding in that moment than they had since Bucky had broken the three red strands around wrists big and small.

Steve tangled his fingers in Bucky’s wild hair and gently let their noses touch before they simultaneously pushed their feet off the bottom, surfacing at the same time to complete drunken chaos.

Tony was paddling his hands in the water at the edge (like that was gonna help), screaming, “The arm! Jesus! Get out of the water! Everyone! It’s gonna short circuit and electrocute you all! Swim for your lives!” He looked like he was having a panic attack, brown eyes wide, breathing too fast. By the way Natasha grabbed Tony under the arms and started hauling him backwards, Bucky knew that she’d spotted the signs too. Kicking his feet as she dragged him away, Tony kept screaming, “You’re all gonna die!”

Sam was yelling, Clint was yelling, actually, there was too much yelling to single out all the voices. _Everyone_ was yelling, and poor Dr. Mayz was floating next to them on her noodle looking like she was about to pass out. The splash had drenched her completely; flattening her carefully styled casual bun and knocking her oversized sunglasses off her face. Her wine spritzer was long gone.

But the fingers still tangled in Bucky’s hair ignored the noise completely, five warm digits pulling him towards a place where Steve’s tongue slid into Bucky’s mouth, the taste of strawberries replacing the piss and shit and somehow making the water around them warmer.

The arm twitched when Bucky folded it around Steve’s broad shoulders, and his side ached as he wrapped his legs around Steve’s waist, but Steve just smiled. The kid gloves were off... _so far off_...like Steve had thrown them into the depths of the Mariana Trench to hang out with the unknown beasts and those weird fish that have the lights hanging off their foreheads. When Steve stood up he lifted them both out of the water, the shirts stuck to their skin revealing so much more than muscles, and Bucky felt something like pure joy.

Steve roughly kissed Bucky’s lips then growled, “I love you, fucker,” before leaping up and slamming Bucky backwards into the water.

As the bubbles rose all around them and a painful zing ran through his neck, Bucky thought, ‘I love you too, dipshit.’

 

 **The Truth About Fucking**                                                          **Saturday, July 8, 2017- 11 pm**

“I’m so mad at you.” Steve kicked at Bucky’s leg and gave him a little smile. He couldn’t help it. Bucky was sitting on the end of the couch, wearing nothing but a pair of navy sweatpants and his sparkly tiara and he looked...adorable. After Steve had rescued the silly piece of plastic from the deep end of the pool, Bucky had flat out refused to take it off, declaring that, ‘when someone as powerful and all knowing as Wanda says you’re the Prettiest Princess at the Princess Party, you milk that shit for as long as possible’. The jaunty angle of the tiara and Bucky’s crooked grin matched perfectly, and Steve had to admit that he agreed wholeheartedly. If Bucky wanted to wear that tiara forever, Steve would support him with a smile. The image of Bucky charging into combat, layered in all black gear with a Glock in each hand, while a tiny tiara held on for dear life in his hair...Steve pushed his foot against Bucky’s knee and chuckled just thinking about it.

They’d gotten back to their apartment well after dark; tired, stuffed, and loaded down with armfuls of presents, a plate filled with extra chocolate cake, and a huge bunch of blue and white balloons that Wanda had insisted that they take for some undefined reason. Bucky’s hair was a giant mess from the pool; twisting and looping everywhere in thick clumps, and he’d shoved the little plastic diamonds so deep into the tangles that they were barely visible in the chaos. Steve wanted to draw him; to somehow capture the hilarious contrast of his heavy five o’clock shadow and thick chest hair with something as delicate as pink jewels from a child’s fantasy. That was the whole point of the last few days; Bucky was trying to show Steve the softer parts of himself, things that had always been there but Steve had never known...or chosen to see. If Steve could drag his softest pencil across a fresh piece of heavy-tooth paper, he’d use the bumpy texture to accentuate the roughness of Bucky’s edges while carefully using the tips of his fingers to discover the secret parts. He’d title the drawing ‘Revelation’ with an entirely different meaning than the violence and wrath of exploding wax seals.

Bucky quirked up the corner of his mouth and kicked right back. “You’re not _really_ mad at me, you’re just upset that Wanda didn’t pick _you_ as the Prettiest Princess. Getting snubbed at your own party, that’s gotta hurt.”

Grabbing Bucky’s foot and giving it a good yank, Steve planted a kiss on his big toe and realized that he _was_ a little mad that he hadn’t been chosen to wear the crown...then realized a second later that he was an idiot.

“See, I can tell by that look that you’re not really mad at me.” Bucky’s smile was all tooth now, something light and full of sunshine, and it made Steve feel...weird. Like the person beaming back at him was something of a stranger...

Steve had seen Bucky chuckling and smiling this new smile with Clint, acting like an idiot, having fun, but he hadn’t recognized it as a foreign expression until it had been directed his way. Running his thumb along the arch of Bucky’s foot, the grin only expanded until he threw his head back and laughed. The last time Steve had seen anything close to such an open expression had been that awful day he’d spent tormenting himself at the Smithsonian. Light had poured off the flickering screen of the newsreel as their ghosts laughed at a joke from another time. But even then, on that five seconds of film, Bucky had tipped his head down at the end. Not now. No. Now, Bucky was looking directly into Steve’s eyes and lighting up the entire room.

Bucky was so beautiful. It made Steve feel a little unsteady, disoriented...it felt wrong to feel that way, but all of this was going to take a little getting used to. Everything was changing so fast around him...not in a bad way, it was good… but it felt a little out of control; the person smiling so broadly at Steve seemed like a disconcertedly new being without the past to ground him. The red burns on Bucky’s empty wrist were almost completely faded, and Steve’s own wrist suddenly gave him anxiety; the cotton strings had been snapped only four days ago, and Steve had to admit that their absence made him a little uncertain how the two of them connected.

“Steve, you’re in the alley again.”

“What?”

“Where’d you just go?”

Glancing down at his lap, Steve realized that he’d absently pressed Bucky’s heel against the tight red underwear that were stretching across his hip. He’d chosen the red ones because they’d been at the top of the laundry basket...no, that was a lie. He’d dug to the very bottom to find them, passing up grey, blue, a pair of striped boxers, basic tighty whities, until his eyes had spotted the red ones peeking out from inside a pair of Bucky’s black jeans.

“I think I put on these underwear because they’re red.”

“Not because they’re tight and your asscheeks peek out the bottom?”

Steve shook his head.

“Not because you’re trying to win the ‘World’s Most Powerful Power Bottom Competition’ by making yourself completely irresistible?”

“Buck…”

“Listen, I’m pretty much done with deep thoughts for the day, but how about if I show you mine, you show me yours?”

“Your dick?”

“No! I mean, that too, but that’s not what I meant. Jesus, how shallow do you think I am?”

“Baby, I’m sorry, I really thought you meant your dick…”

“It’s fine. Subconsciously I’m sure that I meant my dick too. But what I was talking about was the water.”

“Now I’m really lost.”

“Since…” Bucky blew out a long breath and wiggled his toes. They tickled against Steve’s stomach. “Since you pulled me out of that silo, I’ve been dreaming about water... bad things, really, really bad things...and I’ve been avoiding it at all costs because it triggers…” Bucky trailed off and Steve held onto his foot even tighter. “So the pool today...well, I just wanna thank you for the pool today.”

Bucky sat up a little straighter with his chest fully on display; every new piece of him reminding Steve of where they were on their road. The raised pink scars were blocking any attempt at retreat, fearful u-turns, or hesitation. They kept expanding across Bucky’s skin; the cells pushing the two of them further and further into new territory.

“Now it’s your turn. That’s how this works, Steve.”

“Oh.” Steve shook his head, trying to find enough footing on top of the scars to answer, and he found himself afraid. Afraid to say it, afraid to admit it to himself, afraid of the repercussions, but the words came out anyway. “I don’t know who we are without the Red Vines, Buck. I don’t know…” Steve’s heart was in his throat, because saying something that might hurt him...he glanced up, and Bucky was still looking right at him...waiting. “I don’t recognize us anymore.”

 

> _...Two boys lying in the sun, naked and in awe..._

“Well, you win.”

Memories of thin sheets and pieces of licorice stuck to their legs were instantly replaced with confusion. “What?”

Bucky was suddenly crawling across the couch towards him. “My deep thought was _nowhere near_ as deep as yours.”

When Bucky slid his body up to kneel over his lap, Steve wanted to grab onto him...he did, but his hands stayed firmly at his sides. “Why does everything have to be a joke with you? I swear to god, Bucky, you’re such a fucker!”

Hands loosely grabbed Steve’s wrists and placed them on Bucky’s hips, just above the edge of his sweats. “Is that your new name for me? ‘Fucker’?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty fitting considering that you hit me in the face with a rubber dildo tonight.”

“I _swear_ I was aiming for the catcher’s mitt.” Bucky rolled downward, careful to avoid Steve’s slightly sunburned skin and caught his earlobe between his teeth. It was Steve’s favorite place to be kissed, and Bucky had always known precisely how to run his tongue along the edge before nibbling with the perfect amount of pressure to turn Steve on...the precise amount that his teeth were applying right now.

Steve tried not to moan, but he definitely moaned. “Next to Clint, you have the best aim, and you expect me to buy that?”

His hands really wanted to move, to squeeze the ass of the fucker who’d nailed him in the side of the face with one of Tony’s final presents, but it wasn’t right yet, so Steve tucked his fingers under his thighs instead.

The last two boxes had been wrapped in red and white striped paper with blue bows, and had contained two catcher’s mitts and a bright red dildo tucked carefully into a nest of white tissue paper. As soon as Steve had revealed the anatomically correct plastic dick, Tony had yelled, ‘So you can practice for your Power Bottom Competition!’ and Bucky had literally fallen on the ground laughing. After Steve had stopped blushing (which had taken awhile), he’d slid the plastic sunglasses back over his eyes and had joined in, because what else was he supposed to do? When you’re surrounded by a group of people who are entrusted with the protection and safety of planet Earth, but who really spend their days throwing snowballs at one another in July, holding ‘Who can pop the Frozen water wings by flexing their biceps?’ competitions (of course, Steve won), and cracking up about giant red dildos, laughing’s really your only option.

Fresh out of the box, Bucky had tossed Steve a mitt, then had launched the dildo at his face before Steve had even gotten a chance to process what was happening. In ninety-nine years, Steve could honestly say that getting hit in the face with an obnoxiously huge red dildo had certainly been a first, but he was supposed to be embracing the _new_ , so he’d launched it back twice as hard. Bucky had made the perfect catch with his good hand, grabbing it out of the air right in the middle of the shaft, then had nodded like he was the boss. Score one for Bucky on the Power Bottom card.

“Mmm-hmm, of course I expect you to buy that,” Bucky murmured against his neck. “I would never ever hit you in the face with a cock on purpose.” Leaning back, Bucky rolled his abs so that Steve could watch every single movement...and his fingers escaped their self-imposed prison under his thighs. “You seemed to be having fun when Sam knocked the remains of your terrifying icy likeness into the pool with a golf club.”

“True. Plus the cake was really good.” Steve smiled and touched one finger just below Bucky’s belly button, dragging it down and hooking it in the band of his sweatpants.

“I knew it!” Bucky scrambled backwards, crawling over Steve’s legs and putting too much pressure on the arm... no...wait. Shit! How in the hell was Steve supposed to recalibrate his thinking? If it was too much pressure on the arm, then Bucky wouldn’t be doing it!

Bowing down, Bucky licked a long line up Steve’s thigh, starting just above his knee and curving inward, tracing the edge of Steve’s underwear until Bucky stopped to whisper against his hip. “You _loved_ your party, and I saw you put that Elsa doll in your pocket.”

Steve chuckled, adjusting Bucky’s tiara to make it more crooked, before lifting his hips just enough. “Baby, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, no?” Bucky got a cocky grin and grabbed at Steve’s tiny red underwear with his warm hand. “Then what’s this?”

“That would be my hard dick.”

“Are you sure about that, Steve? I’m positive that I saw you shove her in here. I’d better take a closer look, just to be sure that you don’t have any Frozen contraband.” Bucky nibbled his way across him, murmuring, “Hmm, I didn’t find Elsa, but I certainly found something else…”

“Does it look like _my hard dick_?”

Bucky let his tongue saturate the fabric, teasing as he whispered, “I’m not sure, I haven’t seen it in a very long time.”

As Bucky carefully pulled the underwear down just far enough, Steve put his head back on the couch and sighed. Since Odessa they’d only kissed and cuddled, a couple butt grabs, but nothing beyond. The weird feeling had been there, the same one as the sunshine smile, like Steve was somehow about to have sex with someone new. He didn’t really know how to describe it, even to himself, so he hadn’t pushed it. He hadn’t even known how to put it into words until they’d spilled out of his lips.

But now, the lips around him felt the same, the same pressure, the same curl to Bucky’s tongue as he licked exactly where and how Steve liked it the most, but there was something…

Bucky planted one kiss at the end, then slid himself up onto Steve’s lap. “I can say with complete confidence that is _not_ an Elsa doll pressing up against my balls right now.” One hand intertwined with the hairs on the back of Steve’s head, pulling backwards harder than he ever had before. “It would be pretty disturbing for you to screw me with a Disney princess.”

And maybe that was it. Since Wakanda...since Bucky had come out of cryo...they hadn’t switched. Steve glanced over at the little Tsum-Tsums that Tony had given Bucky in the hospital; now with new and improved velcro. Steve’s little Tsum-Tsum crotch was still stuck to Bucky’s little Tsum-Tsum ass, and Steve wondered why? Grabbing Bucky’s hips to still him, Steve said, “Did you put our shirts in the dryer?”

“You wanna get dressed? I swear to god, Steve, it’s like you don’t want to touch me since…”

“No, no, baby,” Steve interrupted, “that’s not it at all!” Pushing Bucky backwards, Steve lifted his hips up to make it perfectly clear that all of his parts wanted to touch him. “Can you please go get the shirts?”

“What if I don’t want to get the shirts!?” Bucky was getting pissed, a familiar routine, when Steve wanted this moment to be anything _but_ routine!

“Then don’t get the damn shirts!” This time when Steve shoved him, he did it hard enough that Bucky fell back all the way into the cushions, and, when Steve stood up, he aggressively shoved the red underwear the rest of the way off and flung them right into Bucky’s annoyed face. Dildo revenge.

“What the hell, Steve! I thought we had a great time today...well, a mostly great time...I’m finally in good enough shape to fuck! None of my bones are showing anymore! Except my cock, which, by the way, is looking less and less ‘bone-like’ by the second!”

Ignoring him completely, Steve stomped to the dryer and yanked out Tony’s ridiculous shirts, then stomped right back to the living room. He flipped the coffee table out of the way, launching his neatly fanned out Martha Stewart Living magazines, the remote, the fake plant, and the goddamn red dildo onto the floor! Bucky had the courtesy to look shocked, even though, after seeing what Steve had done to the pool table, he probably shouldn’t. Maybe Steve standing there completely naked with a raging erection, pointing a finger at him with the ‘Power Bottom’ shirts in his hand, was a shocking sight to Bucky after a lifetime of coddling, but right now...for once...Steve didn’t care.

“You know what! You’re right! I _don’t_ want to fuck you! I don’t want to _fuck_ at all!”

Bucky blinked, and Steve knew that he’d hurt him. It was weird hurting him outright, telling the truth in such a spectacularly honest way; not hiding or drowning in depressing thoughts for hours on end, not sugarcoating reality with licorice or whatever bullshit Steve had buried everything under for their entire relationship.

“What?” Bucky gasped.

Steve didn’t even look at the shirts in his hand when he chose one and dropped the other on the floor. Yanking it over his head, he hollered, “That’s right! You heard me! I haven’t _fucked_ you since we got back from that goddamn nightmare because this should be special! Sometimes you can be so dense! Goddammit, Buc…”

“You’re calling me names now too?” Bucky interrupted, leaping up off the couch and throwing the tiara across the room. “Fucking nice, Steve. Real classy. Maybe you should go back to pretending that you’re blind? At least you were nice to me then!”

Moving toward him, Steve grabbed him by the wrist...his fingers squeezing skin, with nothing in between... the connection real, valid, _present_ . “Stop! Would you stop and _listen_!?”

“Listening is _your_ fucking problem, not mine!” Bucky hissed, trying to yank his arm away, but Steve didn’t let go.     

“I don’t want to fuck you, because I don’t want to _fuck_ ! I want it to be more than that!” The pressure pulling against Steve’s hand relaxed a little, and Bucky looked him in the eye. His chest was heaving and the sneer was there, but Steve wasn’t going to run out the door this time. He was going to keep their skin connected and say exactly what he meant! “Even in Wakanda, even after we moved to the compound, the sex was…” Steve had to get this right...if he said this wrong everything could collapse...not that their footing was stable to begin with. “Since I got you back, I don’t think I’ve had sex with _you_.”

“Well, my ass would probably argue with that, Steve. You’ve stuck your cock in it plenty of times, so I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!”

“Will you please sit back down?”

“No!”

“Fine, then _I’m_ sitting down.” Steve let go of his wrist, but he sat on the couch directly in front of him so their feet were almost touching. Bucky was glaring at him like he thought Steve was insane, and right now, Steve felt fucking insane! Everything was changing, it was all new, all of this! But, thankfully, Bucky didn’t move and his breathing was slowing down. “Listen, Buck. What I’m trying to tell you is that I think I was holding on so tightly to who _you_ used to be, shit, to who _I_ used to be, that I think _Stevie_ was having sex with _him_. Do you understand? I’m not Stevie, and you’re not James Buchanan Barnes.”

“My driver’s license disagrees,” Bucky snapped, stepping on Martha Stewart’s face and twisting his heel.

“You don’t even have a driver’s license!”

He obliterated the magazine, kicking Martha into the blinds as he yelled, “It’s a figure of speech!”

“No, it’s not! Stop fucking up my magazines! That was the issue with the goddamn apple pie!”

Since Bucky had gotten healthy enough to come home and they’d had their literal breakthrough, symbolic red cotton snapping and all, they’d been in this position more times in the last few days than they’d been in their whole damn lives! A standstill, two mountains refusing to move...whatever you wanted to call it...they were two forces clashing in the center of a disappearing landscape made up of half-truths and outright lies. It was tense, confusing, and fucking stressful! Steve put his hand over his eyes and gave them a really good rub before steeling himself and grabbing Bucky’s thighs.

“I want _Bucky_ ! The Bucky who loves horrible loud music! Bucky, who thinks that Grumpy Cat shirts are hilarious! Bucky, who hit me in the face with a goddamn dildo! Bucky, the _fucker_ , who flat out _tells me_ when I’m fucking up! I want that Bucky! You! Do you fucking understand? I want _you_ to make love to _me_!”

“Oh.”

“Oh? That’s it!? Are you kidding me?” Steve dug his nails into Bucky’s sweats because he was so damn frustrated...

“Is this because you wanna wear _my_ ‘Power Bottom’ t-shirt and have it be true?”

Steve snapped his head up, ready to be pissed all over again, but Bucky had tears in his eyes and his lower lip was shaking. He looked lost too.

Rubbing his hands up the sides of Bucky’s legs, Steve whispered, “I already hold the ‘Most Powerful Power Bottom’ title, even if it hasn’t been since 1944.”

“If it’s not in this century, it doesn’t fucking count.” Bucky wiped at his eyes and tried to scowl. It didn’t work.

“Buck…”

“I didn’t think that you’d like who I am now, or who I really was underneath all those years. I thought that as soon as I stopped pretending, as soon as I told the truth, that you’d always wish that I was someone else.”

“Bucky…”

“What?”

“Please, take me to the bedroom so I can show you exactly how I feel about you.”

It took Bucky a few minutes, Steve could see him thinking, getting used to it, adjusting. Steve understood completely and let him have all the time that he needed.

“Steve, if you’re gonna wear that shirt, shouldn’t it be you taking _me_ to the bedroom?”

Steve laughed, because Bucky was absolutely right. Jumping up off the couch, he picked Bucky up right under the ass and flipped him over his shoulder.

“Ow, my stab wound!” Bucky yelped.

“You’re tough. Stop complaining.” Steve chuckled and turned his head to nip at Bucky’s hip. “I’ve got a beautiful new man to discover.”

 

**Pancakes Feel So Damn Good                                                Saturday, July 8, 2017- 11 pm**

Watching him...god, _watching_ him, Bucky felt so much wonder that he couldn’t do anything but lay back and learn…

You think you know something...or someone. How they move. How they look. What they’ll say before they open their mouth. What they’ll order for breakfast when you go to your regular breakfast spot at the same exact time every Sunday morning: three eggs (sunny-side up), wheat toast with orange marmalade, bacon (extra crispy), and coffee (black). They always ask Phyllis for the same things in the same order, prepared the same way, then give her the same polite smile followed by the same request for the sports section of The New York Times. Even when the waitresses were named Gracie, Eleanor, or Clara in a London cafe, the order had always been the same. You think you know something...or someone...and then they order pancakes.

You look back, trying to figure out where the pattern deviated, why pancakes were suddenly more appealing than sunny-side up eggs. Reflecting on a day that had started out exactly the same as any other; you both brushed your teeth looking in the same mirror, slid your feet into the same worn in shoes and walked over the same threshold with the same gait, you both commented on the weather, and took turns holding open the doors that released the breakfast smells onto the street. But then he’d smiled at Phyllis and winked, saying, ‘This morning I’d love a big stack of pancakes with powdered sugar, a side of ham, and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice’, as he looked into your eyes instead of at the stats from yesterday’s baseball games.

The gentle, slow rolls of Steve’s hips as he took what he needed, as he pushed Bucky’s body down into the soft comforter and rolled his head backwards in a way that Bucky had never seen…the feeling of Steve...god, he was like pancakes with the pats of butter sliding off the edges, syrup spilling over the sides onto the table, and every single thing about him was delicious.

Bucky moaned as Steve bent over and kissed his lips, tangling his strong hand in Bucky’s hair and breathing into Bucky’s mouth as they chased the waves together. Waves of pleasure, waves of exhilaration, warm waves of connection forming with every pulse, every bead of sweat mixing together and deepening the meaningful looks into one another’s eyes.

If he was honest with himself, which he was really trying to be, he knew that this was the first time they’d made love since before Bucky had left for the war. And that realization made Bucky feel raw, pink like Steve’s sunburnt shoulders, because you think you know someone...and then you realize that you don’t…

Steve had taken his time, dropping Bucky in the middle of the bed then standing there...looking at him, really _looking_ before he’d roughly grabbed the waistband of Bucky’s sweats and pulled them down, yanking them over his feet in one smooth motion before he’d tossed them aside, never breaking eye contact once. Then Steve had stood at the foot of the bed, in that ridiculous t-shirt and nothing else, looking...and Bucky had allowed himself to be seen.

He’d brushed his nose against Bucky’s ankle bones like they were just as new as the jagged scar at the top of his thigh, he’d nibbled at the trail of hair that ran downwards below Bucky’s bellybutton as if it were as new as the divot beneath his ribs where the knife had slid in. And when Steve had licked across Bucky’s chest from his right nipple over to his left, his tongue had kept right on moving across the metal of his shoulder until it had found its way up the side of his neck and back to his lips. Once Steve had mapped every part of him, they’d worked their way towards discovering a rhythm that sounded like nothing else they’d ever played.

Bucky lifted his head enough to press it roughly against Steve’s forehead, and, in return, Steve pulled his hair, using it as leverage to grind himself deeper, harder. The arm jerked as Bucky tried to reach for Steve’s waist, but instead of stopping, or slowing, or asking if he was okay, Steve grabbed both of his wrists and pinned them over Bucky’s head. The metal spasmed again but Steve held firm, and, as the zings of electricity ran up and down Bucky’s neck, Steve took what he needed, and Bucky never wanted to know what Steve was going to order for breakfast again.

Steve Rogers, holding the ridiculous shirt up just enough enough that you couldn’t read the words ‘Captain America’, was showing Bucky that he was someone new too. Maybe Bucky shouldn’t think of him as Steve Rogers anymore either? Perhaps he shouldn’t think of anything else except their joined bodies and how the motion had absolutely nothing to do with _fucking_ . When Bucky came, the scent of omelettes, hash browns, oatmeal with blueberries and brown sugar, and waffles with whipped cream and maple syrup filled his nose. Endless breakfast possibilities typed on an infinite menu, each one tempting and mouth watering, each one _new_...and damn if Bucky didn’t smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find Lorien/drjezdzany here
> 
> [Drjezdzany](http://drjezdzany.tumblr.com/tagged/my-art/)
> 
>  
> 
> Find lucidnancyboy/Jessie Lucid Art here 
> 
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/)   
> [Tumblr](https://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com/)
> 
> We love comments! They’re kind of like virtual donuts, and donuts are delicious! Thanks for reading! 
> 
> "Episode Two: We Hate Cats!" Chapter One Playlist:
> 
> Simon and Garfunkel- "America"  
> Avril Lavigne (feat. Chad Kroeger)- "Let Me Go"  
> Hozier- "Work Song"


	2. Kittens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood Music Playlist [JessieLucidYouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLbGnycMfOsiCQkT2OKUZFlpvhm8PRw5MA)
> 
> Songs for Chapter 2 are listed in the endnotes. :)

                               

 

                               

 

**Deceptive Packaging                                                                    Sunday, July 9, 2017- 8 pm**

Fact: Whatever the fuck was in this bowl did not, in any way, qualify as a movie snack.

No matter what had been advertised on the brightly colored packaging that had sucked Natasha in with its promises of being both healthy _and_ delicious, it was all a lie; nothing but a big fat marketing ploy that, for some fucking reason, was fooling millions of Americans. The last time that Steve had talked him into stepping foot into Whole Foods, Bucky’d fallen for it too.

A cool looking dude with greaser hair, on-trend beard, traditional tattoos, and a neat little apron had been standing innocently enough behind his little stand of samples. He’d lined up his lime green packages in a neat little row, so the words ‘Luke’s Organic Kale Multigrain & Seed Chips’ had caught Bucky’s eye with their cool, modern font. Cool Dude had smiled at Bucky, welcoming, suggesting that what he’d had to offer would please Bucky’s taste buds. God, Bucky was embarrassed to admit that he’d been lured in like a dimwitted, hipster fish. Bucky had smiled at the bearded man offering him sustenance, had reached into the innocuous bowl and plucked out an innocent looking triangular chip, then had happily popped it into his mouth. The grand lie had been revealed instantly; the cruel deception terrorizing his taste buds! When Bucky had ‘accidentally’ spit it back into the bowl, screaming ‘What the fuck was that!?’ at the top of his lungs, Steve had abandoned his cart full of Organic Almond Milk and fancy hummus, used his tactical skills to quickly plan an escape route, and had shoved Bucky down the wine and cheese aisle and out the fucking door before an army of angry Whole Foods employees could track them down. Contents of their refrigerator today? Completely _non-organic_ Whole Milk and _normal_ fucking salsa.

The point was, Bucky was not falling for this hipster shit again, and he was kinda pissed at Clint for allowing this kinda crap to go down.

“Clint,” Bucky yelled, throwing a handful of green somethings across the couch. He’d tried to avoid Lucky, who was curved up against Clint’s shins, but a green something landed on his head. Oops. “Where are the Ruffles? Pringles? Hell, I’ll even take Lay’s at this point.”

“Oh, man, give these chips a chance. They’re so much better for you. They’re organic, gluten-free, kosher, vegan, no added salt.” Clint shoved a handful in his mouth and tried to chew convincingly.

“You know they’re gross.”

Steve snickered, as Clint jammed even more in his mouth and mumbled, “They’re awesome,” effectively spitting dark green crumbs all over his black t-shirt. Bucky swore that Clint’s eyes were watering.

The Mistress of the Hipster Chips strolled over with her hair tucked beneath one of Clint’s hoodies, wearing a pair of little silky pink pajama bottoms, with her own big bowl of gluten-free poison tucked under her arm. Plopping down on the back of the couch next to Clint, who was defiantly adding more chips to his overflowing mouth, Natasha asked, “What’s gross?”

“Nothing,” Clint choked. He was turning bright red.

Bucky leaned towards him, giving Lucky’s head a little pat and removing the errant chip, before running his metal finger around the rim of the bowl and whispering, “Admit it.”

Lord, the poor guy was trying to swallow, Natasha had one eyebrow raised expectantly, Steve was flat out giggling, and still, Clint chewed...and chewed…

“Admit it…”

Swallowing the huge lump of whatever the fuck it was, Clint gasped for air then yelled, “They’re so fucking gross! I hate them! I hate them, Nat! I tried, I really did, and I know you’re just trying to keep my arteries from clogging up, but I really want my greasy, salty, fatty Potato Chips of Death back.” He might even be crying a little, and Bucky sympathized. He’d been there.

 

 

Fact: This movie was fucking stupid.

“This movie makes absolutely no sense.” Steve scrunched up his eyes at the screen, like he _didn’t_ have fucking 20/10 vision, and gave the teenagers running around doing crazy shit his infamous bitch-face. Amen, Bitchy Steve! A-fucking-men!

“Exactly! Why would anyone let people tell them what to do if they didn’t fucking have to?” Bucky scrunched up his face too...to show unity...because Bucky did not give a shit if the Hollywood budget of this cinematic disaster was one-hundred million dollars, if it was stacked with the latest up-and-coming actors from the wilds of LA, or if the special effects were top notch. He didn’t care. The plot sucked donkey balls.

Bucky snorted. ‘Donkey balls’. That was another one of the gems he’d added to his mental dick list. The internet had been teaching him some very interesting names for the male anatomy in this new century; he’d spent over an hour this morning doing important technical research for his newest mission. Objective: embarrass the fuck out of Steve by calling his dick something a little more ‘modern’. Bucky had tried one out after they’d eaten normal hot dogs, on normal white bread buns, with normal mustard for lunch. It had gone a little something like this: ‘Hey, Steve. After you finish that hot dog, do you wanna come suck on my _manhood_?’

Needless to say, his ‘manhood’ had gone unsucked, and Steve had swallowed down another All-American beef hot dog instead of Bucky’s home grown _beef stick_. He was gonna try ‘donger’ later.

“Can we watch something else?” Steve was still squinting. Maybe he thought it added credibility to his argument?

“Yeah, this movie is lamer than a _limp trouser snake_.” Bucky stuck out his tongue and nodded because, yeah, yeah, he’d used that in a sentence.

“Guys, it’s called _entertainment_ ,” Clint snapped, then turned to Bucky who was pumped for the trouser snake reaction. C’mon, c’mon...he _had_ to have noticed… but he just gave Bucky the look that said ‘I heard you, asshole, but I’m not giving you the satisfaction. It was a real kick in the _purple-helmeted warrior of love_.

 

  
Fact: The guest list for movie night was a very elite group.

That meant that even though the snacks sucked, the movie sucked, nobody had paid attention to his trouser snake joke, and Steve had dozed off at an awkward angle in the corner of the couch and was drooling all over Natasha’s throw pillow, that Bucky was so goddamn thankful to be there.

Every Sunday since that first night in Wakanda, when Clint had handed Bucky a single boxing glove and they’d ended up a little bloody on the gym floor, laughing at Bucky’s inability to keep himself upright with only one arm, Bucky had made it onto the top of the VIP list. It had taken a little longer for Steve to get the invite, because somehow Clint and Natasha had known that Bucky had needed the time to think, well, _Natalia_ had known that he’d needed time to think. But, as soon as the red bracelets had appeared, they’d lifted the velvet rope for Steve too.

Four names on an exclusive list: Clint, Natasha, Bucky, Steve. That was it.

Natasha had curled up on Clint’s good side, and they were pressing their cheeks together as they watched the movie. So many secrets that they chose to keep to themselves; that they shared an apartment at the compound, that they’d been together since right before Tony’d decided that Ultron had been the way to go, that they’d been in love long before that, but, even now, they never showed it outright. That’s why Bucky felt so honored to be someone they trusted enough to be who they really were together. Bucky still didn’t know if Clint knew... how much Natasha had told him...but Bucky remembered enough about The Red Room to know that it wasn’t his place.

“What’s this movie called anyway?” Bucky jostled Steve’s side because he was snoring.

Snuggling into Clint’s shoulder, Natasha replied, “Nerve.”

“It got 66% on Rotten Tomatoes,” Clint chuckled. “‘Batman V Superman’ only got 27%.”

“That’s supposed to be good? I don’t...” A violent spasm jolted from Bucky’s hip, blasting all the way up his side, and the arm jammed into Steve’s ribs.

“I’m up! I’m up!” Steve hollered, the drool trail still very much present on his chin.

The movie on the screen kept right on playing like Bucky’s own nerves weren’t fucking malfunctioning and putting on a show of their own; and it wasn’t just the arm, the spasms didn’t even run through the metal half the time anymore. When he’d been pulling up his groovy socks earlier, one had screamed through the base of his skull, straight down his spine, until the muscles in his right groin had tightened painfully...

 

Fact: The arm had to come off.

Bucky knew it. Steve knew it. Clint and Natasha knew it. Tony was killing himself trying to prevent it, but no amount of technological wizardry was gonna fix what was happening inside Bucky’s body, so they all had to just accept it. They had to watch stupid movies about kids doing stupid shit for money and _not_ hit the pause button every time Bucky short circuited. If they did that, they’d never see the end.

 

Fact: Bucky was afraid he wouldn’t make it off the table this time.

Pretty self explanatory.

 

Fact: Natasha was the smartest person he knew.

Natasha leaned over to touch the bottom of Bucky’s foot. He was wearing a pair of killer tube socks with blue stripes at the top and a pair of black basketball shorts. Steve had said that he looked like he needed a sweatband and a skateboard, and Bucky couldn’t agree more. He had plans to get down with Amazon wearing nothing but boxers and his striped socks in the morning, with a side mission to ask Steve if Bucky could, ‘skate into that ass with his _spawn hammer_ ’...although, that one was probably more fitting for Thor.

Tickling the arch, she said, “I don’t like the movie either, but I do like the idea of Truth or Dare in modern times.”

“What are you talking about, in modern times?” Steve still looked like a sleepy little bear, well, a sleepy big bear, all mushed into the corner of the couch with his sleepy bear face. After what had happened between them last night, Bucky just couldn’t get enough of him. Rubbing his sleepy bear eyes, Steve mumbled, “This dare thing isn’t just from this movie?”

Bucky shrugged, because he had no clue either.

“You’re telling me that you two dorks have never played Truth or Dare?” Clint laughed outright. “I’m absolutely positive that this game’s been around since the Garden of Eden. Think about it: ‘Hey, Eve. Doesn’t that apple look good? Eat it. I _dare_ ya’. You guys have no excuse for your cluelessness on this one.”

“Why would I want to kiss a stranger?” Steve stretched his arms above his head, and Bucky rolled his eyes, because Steve had kissed a few strangers in his day. Peggy had told stories.

“I saw that eye roll, Bucky.” Natasha gave him their top secret wink, then said, “Hey, Rogers. I Dare you to tell me how many strangers you’ve kissed.”

“What!? No.”

Bucky knew just what to say. “There were at least eight that I know of.”

“That’s not true!” Steve pushed forward, knocking the drooly pillow on the floor, and made a lot of hand gestures when he exclaimed, “It was just that blonde girl at the SSR, and the three girls on Senator Brandt’s stupid war bond circus sideshow, and the brunette on the USO tour, but they all kissed _me_! And then, I guess I did kiss that one guy at a club in DC, well, two guys, but I’d had a really stressful day and…” Steve held his hands out like he was the purest virgin, waiting for someone to wash the impurities of strange kisses off his unmarred skin.

“So, seven then.” Natasha gave Steve her ‘gotcha’ voice. Monotone, calm, just quiet enough to make her victims think about why she sounded so satisfied...

Steve paused, then flipped to that deer in the headlights look, and Natasha leaned forward to give Bucky a well deserved high-five.

“It’s embarrassing that you still fall for that, Steve,” Clint snickered. “Two Russian spies tag teaming you, and every single time you just take the bait in one big gulp; hook, line, and sinker. I almost feel like I should help you out, like maybe we can work out a signal like they have...but, then again, she’s my person, and Bucky’s my bromantic partner...which means you’re on your own.”

 

Fact: Steve was a liar.

Wait. Wait, wait, wait right fucking there! The number had caught up to Bucky in his brain! Seven! He’d been shooting high at eight. Estimating three, four at the most, plus Peggy...but _seven_! “Seven! You never told me that!”

“You never asked. Will someone _please_ turn this movie off. It’s beyond annoying!”

“Classic deflection,” Clint deadpanned, adjusting his cast on the cushions. “Not gonna work around here, big guy.”

Damn fucking right it wasn’t! Bucky pushed off the couch too, because he wasn’t gonna sit down and take this bulllshit. “What ‘guys’? _Plural,_ Steve! You said ‘guys’ in a bar!”

Clint groaned. “You two are _so_ not fun right now. Eat some mother fucking Organic Kale Chips, drink another Coke…”

“Coca-cola,” Steve interrupted.

“Steve! Zip it!” Clint yelled. Bucky went to open his mouth, because Steve had said _guys_ , but Clint snapped his fingers and gave him a death glare. “You too, Bucky. Drink a fucking _Coke_!”

 

Fact: They were _both_ liars.

It took Bucky a few minutes and two Cokes to stop freaking out and imagining Steve making out with _two fucking guys_ in a seedy bar. The thought that had stopped him? Well, there was an entire highlight reel running through his brain that was making a pretty solid case for Bucky being the biggest hypocrite that anyone could imagine. He’d been trying not to remember, to turn off the films as soon as they threatened to play in the flickering light of his zig-zagging mind, but not this time. Even if Steve had stuck his tongue deep inside the mouth of a man whose name he’d never known, then had let another slide up behind him and touch him in places that Bucky’d thought had belonged to only him all this time, it could never compare to what Bucky had done…

Settling in next to him, Natasha twirled a finger in Bucky’s hair then whispered into his ear. “You should play later.”

Bucky squinted his eyebrows at her, and she quickly nabbed his chin and playfully squeezed his dimple together. She’d done it before, a long, long time ago, and sometimes Natalia liked reminding him in her own subtle ways that The Soldier had let her.

“Truth or Dare. You two should play.”

Steve was now sitting on Natasha’s exercise ball, bouncing slightly, holding the remote hostage, and giving Clint a dirty look. It was a completely different look from last night, when Steve had sat on top of Bucky’s cock, bouncing slightly, holding Bucky’s entire body hostage, and giving him the most intimate look that they’d ever shared.

“I’ve learned a lot over time, medvezhonok.”

Bucky pulled in a breath because she hadn’t called him ‘teddy bear’ since she was just past the age where she’d slept with a ratty, stuffed version in her childhood bed. God, Bucky hadn’t known if she’d remembered.

“I’ve experienced love and loss, found out the answers the hard way, walked away when I should have stayed, stayed when I should have walked away...” She glanced at Clint before continuing. “...but if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that the truth can be your friend if you’re whispering it to the right person.”

Bucky couldn’t stop staring at the fucking ball, at Steve’s spread legs, his white Nikes, the anger evident in his knees. Natasha pulled his chin again, stopping Bucky from going too far down the rabbit hole. “Play the game, medvezhonok,” she whispered before pressing his lips right against the shell of his ear. “I _dare_ you.”

 

 **The Truth Is Easier To Swallow At 200 mph**                              **Sunday, July 9, 2017- 11 pm**

Going back to their apartment just didn’t seem like an option after Clint and Natasha had kicked them out. Steve _really_ wanted to sneak through the winding corridors of the compound that would take him to the alley...to see if the mound of melted red goop had been consumed by the ants, to crunch discarded Coca-Cola cans under his shoes, to throw broken concrete against the aluminum walls...

He watched how Bucky’s fingers kept touching his thigh, reaching for a knife in a holster that he’d left on the shelf next to their bed. Hands absently wandering to the small of his back, searching for the Bowie Knife that he’d tucked behind his pile of hoodies in their closet. Old habits used to deal with new truths that were far beyond anything that they’d ever explored. Steve hadn’t told Bucky about the girls, or the bar, because how exactly was he supposed to bring that up? ‘Hi, sweetheart. I’m so relieved you’re not dead. Wanna hear about all the people that touched me when you weren’t around?’

Without words, they walked right past the door that would have taken them to their apartment; to a place where Steve had thought they were doing better, where he’d thought they’d had a real breakthrough last night. The realization that one solitary step forward wasn’t going to be the last... only the first in a long line of seemingly unbreachable walls...made Steve hesitate at the corner that led to the alley. Bucky kept right on going, stomping forward in his Vans and those irresistible socks, not hesitating at all...not waiting to see if Steve was trailing behind him. That hurt, because James Buchanan Barnes had always been one step behind…

Bucky turned the corner towards the elevator, and Steve’s vision seemed to stretch the empty hallway in front of him until it was a mile long. He could turn right, crawling along the concrete on six black legs to feast on rotten candy, or he could run after Bucky for once. As soon as Steve heard the bell ding and the doors sliding open, the hallway instantly snapped back down to size, and he ran as fast as his two legs would carry him.

The bottom button had already been pushed when Steve jammed his left arm between the closing doors. Bucky rolled his eyes and deadpanned, “Better be careful, Steve. Arms come off easier than you’d think,” as Steve fell back against the elevator wall. Bucky didn’t say anything else as the elevator made it’s way down, and he remained silent when the doors opened to the underground garage where Tony kept all of his toys. He didn’t utter a single syllable when he tapped his metal index finger once on the hood of the silver Tesla Roadster, three times on the red Lamborghini Huracán, then once on the hood ornament of the gunmetal Rolls Royce Wraith. He flipped his hair back over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at Steve, before he tapped the gold Porsche 911 S two slow times.

In the curving space, concrete bending away from Steve with its long line of rainbow cars that gleamed under the rows of fluorescent lights, the sound echoed. Seven taps altogether before Bucky opened the door of the fifth car and climbed inside the black Bugatti Chiron Supersport. He sat there, perfectly still in the driver’s seat as the windows rolled down seemingly by themselves, staring at the garage door in front of him.

Taking a deep breath, Steve straightened his shoulders and walked in front of the cars, touching each one with the same finger, in the same place, the same number of times, because he wasn’t going to pretend that he didn’t catch Bucky’s meaning. One tap for the blond at the SSR, three for the girls in silly costumes helping him to peddle war bonds, one for the Italian girl on the USO tour, and two taps for two guys in a dark and crowded bar. Steve planted himself directly in front of the hood, palms flat on the black metal, and wished that Bucky would just turn on the fucking headlights.

“Tony would be pissed if he knew you were sitting in his three million dollar Bugatti,” Steve started.

“Do you care?”

Steve thought about it for a second, glancing to the left at the blue 1966 Shelby Super Snake Cobra convertible, one of only two in the world and worth over five million. Tony had told Steve that he’d overpaid for it at an auction because he felt so bad about destroying the 1967 version in Malibu. The yellow-orange Audi R8 V10 plus was parked next to the Shelby, enticing Steve with the color. He took one more look at Bucky squeezing the wheel and said, “Nope,” before walking down and climbing through a forbidden car door of his own. As Steve slid into the driver’s seat and the widows disappeared, he caught a peek at Bucky rubbing his scruff with a little chuckle, the metal hand still thrown up on the wheel as he side-eyed Steve.

“Tony wouldn’t be mad at me anyway,” Bucky drawled, tipping his head back against the seat. “We’re becoming the best of friends. At the party he told me my hair looked like I should be selling acid out of a fanny pack at Coachella, and I told him to fuck off. It was very symbiotic.”

The arm glitched on the steering wheel, the elbow abruptly popping inward and the pinky vibrating as Bucky tried to hold on, and Steve’s heart sank. Tony had tried another fix this morning, something that the Wakandan team had suggested, but after Tony had made the alteration to the upper control panel, nothing had changed. Everything kept leading back to the internal connections, and, for the first time, as Steve had sunk into Tony’s old couch, he’d heard Dr. Cho say the words: surgery, removal, replacement, neural upgrades, and every single one of them had terrified Steve.

He didn’t know what to say, so Steve tried, “Tony’s been drinking less...”

“Steve, he had a robot dog pouring him shots yesterday at the party, and he passed out in the bounce house.” Bucky gave him the universal ‘what the fuck are you talking about’ look, then sighed. “I’m worried about him. He’s not handling the arm situation very well...actually, scratch that...he’s totally fucked up over it. Then Pepper deciding not to come…Jesus.” Bucky leaned his head against the wheel. “...Did you know that she finally sent the ring back at the beginning of June? Had it delivered by FedEx. Natasha told me.”

He’d had no idea.

Steve let his head hit the wheel too, focusing on the little four overlapping circles of the Audi logo stitched into the black leather, and could not fucking believe that Bucky, who Tony’d been _actively_ verbally abusing at the beginning of June, knew more about Tony’s life than Steve did. The more Steve thought about it, the more he knew that he and Tony had never really been friends at all. God, he was such a selfish asshole...

Suddenly, Bucky honked the horn, and it scared Steve enough that he shrieked.

“You okay over there, Princess?” Bucky chuckled, rolling his head towards Steve. “Truth or Dare?”

“You’re such a fucker! You scared the shit out of me, and now Tony’s gonna know we’re in here for sure!”

“FRIDAY, does Tony know we’re in here?”

Answering immediately, she replied, “No, Sergeant Barnes, Mr. Stark is otherwise engaged.”

“See, the coast is clear, and FRIDAY would never rat me out anyway, would you?”

“You are correct in that assumption, Sergeant.”

Steve knew that Bucky talked to FRIDAY, and not like everyone else did...well, maybe Tony...but, once again, Steve didn’t really know. As soon as they’d moved back to the compound, Steve would hear Bucky in the bathroom asking her questions:

 

 

> _FRIDAY,_ _do you think I could pull off nipple rings? Clint showed me this video, and one of the guys had these little bar things stuck in there and it looked pretty fucking sexy...it would kinda match my arm…_
> 
> _FRIDAY, what do you think about goatees? I want to hear your uncensored opinion of Tony’s beard. Does he have someone shave that for him? Is there a beard groomer here? What was the deal with soul patches in the nineties? I know I wasn’t around when they were a thing, but I just can’t wrap my head around how anyone would ever think that looked cool…_
> 
> _FRIDAY, I pretended to remember something again this morning. Steve smiled when I drizzled a spoonful of sugar onto my buttered toast, and looked so happy when he said, ‘You remembered! Gosh, you used to do that as a treat every time your ma managed to bring home a bag of sugar’, but, FRIDAY, I can’t think of a single time that I’ve ever put anything on my toast except butter. I nodded because it was easier than disappointing him again. Why can’t I just tell the fucking truth?_
> 
> _FRIDAY, are you jealous that Jarvis got a body with sweet super powers and you’re stuck in there? Do you think of Vision like a brother? Do you guys talk about internet news and stuff?_
> 
> _FRIDAY, I don’t know how long I can keep this up..._

 

“Steve! Stop stalling and answer the question.”

Answer the question. Answer the question. Which one? Why did Bucky feel more comfortable talking to a computer than to Steve? Why did Bucky know more about the man who’d blown off his fucking arm than Steve, who’d lived and worked with Tony for five years, did? Why had Bucky decided to stay when Steve was such a selfish bastard?

“It’s not a hard question,” Bucky scoffed. “Truth or Dare. You just pick one. You’re acting like I just asked you to choose between rescuing a baby from a burning building or saving a distracted teenager playing on his iPhone from getting run over by a bus. It’s not life or death, it’s a _game_.”

“Fine,” Steve sighed, even though it somehow _felt_ like life or death. “Truth.”

“Two guys in a bar!?”

Really? Of all the things Bucky could ask? Jesus! “Yeah, I already told you two guys in a bar! That was the truth. Now it’s my turn.” If Bucky wanted to play the game, then Steve was gonna play the goddamn game. “Truth or Dare?”

Bucky glared at him, and Steve realized that he was jealous. He’d only seen that look on Bucky’s face for a short time once before, and, even then, he hadn’t realized what he’d seen until the next morning. Over steaming hot coffee in the basement of the SSR, Peggy’d looked Steve straight in the eye and had clipped, ‘Would you care to explain why Sergeant Barnes regards me as competition rather than as a colleague?’

Peggy Carter in a captivating red dress, moving towards them like she’d owned the bar, and strategically not paying Sergeant Barnes any mind as she’d made her desires clear. Peggy Carter, with her perfectly styled brunette hair and confident shoulders, making Bucky feel small before she’d understood what he meant to Steve. Two hands squeezing a steering wheel, much like one had squeezed a glass filled with two fingers of whiskey straight, and the same tongue darting out subconsciously to lick his cupid bow lips…

Steve could see it now; the sideways glance in the dimly lit pub that had screamed ‘get the hell away from him’, the weak smile that was more like a grimace, the heavy bob of his Adam’s apple. The first time that Bucky’s face had shifted into that poorly constructed mask, it had taken a week to soften, and the change hadn’t been Steve’s doing. During the planning and preparation for the first Howlies' Mission, Peggy had made sure to pour three mugs of black coffee instead of two, she’d whispered things into Bucky’s ear while Steve had been busy with Howard or Colonel Phillips, and slowly the green eyed jealousy had transformed into something else entirely. Steve still didn’t know exactly what Peggy Carter had said to make Bucky realize that she’d understood, he only knew that on their final night in London, Peggy had kissed Bucky’s lips too.

But fair was fair. Bucky had asked about ‘two guys in a bar’...it had been _two guys in a bar_...moving on.

“That’s some bullshit right there, dipshit. You’ve always played a little dirty, but that was really low.”

“Stop stalling and answer the question.” Steve threw Bucky’s words right back in his face and grinned.

“Fine. Truth.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that Zola had given you the serum?”

“That’s what you’re gonna lead with? You weaseled your way out of my question and you’re gonna ask me that?”

Steve looked across the convertible between them and popped the ‘P’ when he said, “Yep.”

Bucky looked stressed, but Steve had wanted to ask that question since he’d been forced to kneel at Brock Rumlow’s feet with a gun pointed at his head in DC; wondering if the ghost he’d just come face to face with was Steve’s punishment for messing with the laws of nature. If Bucky would have just told him the truth about the serum, Steve would have gone back! He never would have held onto the side of that goddamn train and left Bucky there to be ripped apart. Never!

“FRIDAY,” Bucky started, “can you please open the doors?”

The rows of double wide garage doors began opening instantly, all six rolling up their tracks onto the ceiling in perfect sync, and they both were confronted with the view of the steep hill that led up to ground level. It was strange to be sitting behind an engine that held so much power when the only sounds were crickets chirping in the night air and the faint hum of the garage lights. If Steve listened close enough he could hear the sound of Bucky’s breathing.

It hitched when Bucky said, “I didn’t tell you a lot of things, Steve. We could play this game for a hundred years, and you still wouldn’t have the time to ask me enough questions to reveal all the lies. But if you wanna start with that one, well, that's fucking fine. Here it is: You had a lot of shit on your plate, and you asked for my help. Pretty cut and dry.”

“It’s not cut and dry, and you know it.”

Bucky paused. He’d been doing that more since Odessa; like he had to struggle with himself to hold back the easy joke or to stop and decide on the precise words that he wanted to say. Steve felt like _he_ was pausing _less_ ; slamming Bucky backwards into the water without thinking, holding down his vibrating arm without hesitation, and blurting out words regardless of their impact. It took Bucky a very long time to answer, and when he did, Steve felt the pain of it in his gut; like the bullet holes Bucky had created in DC were back...and deserved.

“I didn’t tell you because I was scared. Okay? Do you think that I _wanted_ to go back to the war!? Jesus, that was the _last_ fucking thing that I wanted to do! You weren’t there with me when Hydra captured my unit, Steve. You didn’t have any idea what it was like. You weren’t there when they vaporized over half of my men then dragged the rest away in chains behind those goddamn tanks! You weren’t there when they paraded the dead bodies past our cages, and you weren’t there when they strapped me to that fucking table and pumped their poison into me! They ran that shit into my veins for weeks! _Weeks_ , Steve! You want the truth? I didn’t tell you that Zola had given me the serum, because I didn’t even know what the serum was until _after_ your dumb ass had rescued me. And by the time I’d wrapped my head around the fact that you were now a six-foot-two, two-hundred-twenty pound scientific experiment who was ready to take out every fucking Nazi on his own, we were in some bar with Peggy Carter hitting on you, and me...well, dammit, Steve...I’d missed you, okay. And suddenly you were there, sort of, and you were asking me to come...and Peggy was...well, I don’t need to tell you what Peggy was.”

Bucky jammed his metal hand on the horn, holding it down for five long seconds and letting the sound echo up and down the garage. “The truth is this. I was petrified that if I told you how messed up I was inside, you’d send me home, and you wouldn’t be there all over again! I was scared that I’d wander up and down the streets of Brooklyn by myself, and it would be even worse than that fucking table!”

Steve looked straight ahead at the pavement, the elevation quickly rising when Steve could only feel himself sinking into his own lies, peddling hopelessly in sand. He kept his eyes on the cracks when he said, “I didn’t know what was happening to you, but I knew something was wrong…” Wiping a tear from his eye, Steve ventured a look at Bucky before finishing. “...I knew as soon as we started marching back to Italy, when you grew stronger with every step. Then the bruises on your face and the holes in your veins healed before we’d even made it back to London and... I knew, Buck. I knew, and I still asked you to come.”

“I know.” Bucky was staring forward too, maybe following his own cracks in the concrete. “But I followed you anyway because I loved you. Because I _love_ you.”

“But I left you there, Buck, I can’t…”

“Hey,” Bucky interrupted. “It’s my turn. Truth or Dare?”

“Bucky...”

“Later. Okay, baby. I can’t talk about that right now…”

“We _will_ talk about it later, right?”

“Yeah, I promise. I just…” Bucky’s lips vibrated as he rolled his neck in a circle. “I need a break from it for now.”

The words had been said, the truth had been spilled, and there was no going back from it. It wasn’t all going to happen at once. It would probably kill them if it did.

“Well,” Steve admitted, “I’m too lazy to move, so Truth.”

“Please tell me the truth about the two guys in the bar.”

“Really?” At first, Steve still thought it was jealousy...but the look in Bucky’s eyes told a different story entirely...a story that Steve didn’t understand.

Bucky sounded almost sad when he muttered, “It’s bothering me, Steve. I need to know.”

“Jesus, Bucky. I thought you were dead, and I was lonely!” Even though Bucky didn’t seem upset, Steve could feel his own blood pressure rising, because the whole thing was upsetting to _him!_ “Guess who I was friends with in DC before Sam came along? Nobody! Day to day living with Nick Fury? Sure, he gave me orders really well, but we didn’t exactly grab a cold beer together after work. Natasha? Yeah, back then, all she did was try to set me up on dates and work missions with me. _Work_ , Bucky. She didn’t even _know_ about you and me! Nobody did. Except the man who had the nerve to look me in the eye every single goddamn day while they had you in that fucking bank vault! You think I should have been best friends with Brock Rumlow? Huh? So yeah, I was down one night, really fucking down, and I went to a gay club downtown. It took me about five minutes to pick up a guy at the bar, and then another one on the way to the bathroom, and, yeah, I kissed both of them, pressed them both up against the sinks and squeezed their asses, and do you wanna know what happened next?”

“No.”

“Well, the game is _Truth_ , and you asked the goddamn question. One of them grabbed my dick, and I thought about _you_ . Do you understand? I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want anyone else’s hands on me except yours! But you were fucking dead, and I was the one who fucking killed you! So yeah, Buck, I kissed two guys, but then I ran out of that bathroom as fast as I could and left them standing there. I shoved my way out of that club and rode my motorcycle at a hundred and twenty-five miles per hour through the busy streets of DC, because I wanted to _fucking die!_ ”

Steve couldn’t even look at the black car or it’s occupant. He could still see the overpass approaching at high speed. He still remembered the split second decision that had kept him from swerving into the concrete supports that night, although he couldn’t remember why he’d chosen to keep going. He needed a break from that piece of his history too.

“Now it’s my turn to ask, Bucky. Truth or Dare?”

“Dare.”

“I dare you to drag race with me. Right now.”

Bucky got a little smile at that one. “You wanna hotwire Tony’s cars?”

“That will not be necessary, Sergeant Barnes,” FRIDAY helpfully interjected. “I can start the engines remotely for you.”

Steve could not believe what he’d just heard! “You’re going to help us steal Tony’s cars?”

FRIDAY was quick to respond. “I believe that a good drive would be therapeutic for you both.”

“You do realize that I’m gonna drive this car as fast as it’ll go down a winding country road?” Bucky was doing a drum roll on the dash, the tip of his tongue licking across his top lip.

“I am confident in your reflexes, Sergeant.”

Steve’s adrenaline was pumping already. “How fast does this car go, FRIDAY?”

“Top speed on the Audi R8, with the engine alterations made by Mr. Stark, is two-hundred-ten miles per hour with acceleration from zero to sixty in three-point-two seconds. The enhanced Bugatti Chiron has a top speed of two-hundred-sixty-one miles per hour, and please note that Mr. Stark removed all speed locks.”

“Holy shit.” Bucky laughed, his brand new sunshine smile making another appearance.

Both engines revved to life simultaneously, their headlights turning on and illuminating the steep driveway out of the garage. Steve might have had a sunshine smile of his own when FRIDAY said, “I’m opening the main gates now, enjoy your drive.”

 

**Therapy (an overabundance of truth)                                      Monday, July 10, 2107- 1 pm**

07/10/2017  

Intake/ Co-Session: Captain Steven Grant Rogers, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes

Preferred Name(s): Steve, Bucky

Referral: Dr. Helen Cho, M.D., recommendation for general evaluation re: impact of recent traumatic events. ie: capture/torture/rescue of Sgt. Barnes (06/22-06/24/2017), potential prosecution re: Captain Rogers involvement. (see addendum 3A)

 

00:08:31 [Excerpt from Recorded Material]

 

 _Dr. Gala Mayz, M.D. (hereafter referred to as ‘Dr. Mayz’)_ : Gentlemen, our time today was only supposed to be an introductory session; outlining goals, setting a schedule for both individual and co-counseling sessions, sharing major concerns and issues you’d like to deal with together, but I can see that your needs are more acute than could be surmised from the original briefing.

 _Captain Steven Grant Rogers (hereafter referred to as ‘Steve’)_ : Did you know that he lied about enlisting? All this time I thought that he’d believed in the cause as much as I had, that he’d marched proudly to the enlistment office to do his civic duty. He let me feel lesser about myself because I couldn’t do that, when the whole goddamn time he was hiding draft papers in his pocket!

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Captain Rogers, as I said…

 _Steve:_ Don’t call me that.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ I apologize. What would you like me to call you?

 _Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes (hereafter referred to as ‘Bucky’):_ How about, ‘Captain Superior’?

 _Steve:_ Bucky, I’m this close to…

 _Bucky:_ To what, Steve? Huh? Fill us all in. I’m sure Dr. Mayz would love to hear all about…

           _(therapist note: de-escalation)_

 _Dr. Mayz:_ No, that is incorrect. We aren’t ready for this level of conflict in this session. Now, please, both of you take a few deep breaths and look at me. Captai…

          [Audio Gap]

 _Dr. Mayz:_ What should I call you?

 _Steve:_ Steve.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Wonderful. Now, Steve. Can you please focus on me. Here, this is a stress ball. Why don’t you try holding this?

 _Bucky:_ Normally he throws stuff, so you’d better watch out, Doc. He might split your chest in half with it; impale that little ball right in your sternum.

 _Steve:_ You throw stuff too! He throws knives!

 _Bucky:_ What are you, five?

           _(therapist note: de-escalation)_

 _Dr. Mayz:_ And how would you like to be addressed, Sergeant Barnes?

 _Steve:_ ‘Sergeant Liar’ has a nice ring to it.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Steve, it’s not your turn right now.

 _Bucky:_ No, he’s right. I am a liar. Let’s go with Steve’s very fitting and thoughtful name. Sergeant Liar, at your service.

 _Steve:_ Really?

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Okay then, I’m going to go ahead and call you Bucky, and if you’d like me to call you something different, you can let me know. Great. Moving on. I have an idea. Let’s shift gears here and try an exercise together. Steve, I’m hearing you say that you’re upset because you’ve learned that Bucky was drafted and didn’t enlist as you’d previously believed. How did you come across this information?”

 _Steve:_ First, he said something about it on that fucking video feed. Then we were playing Truth or Dare.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Excuse me?

 _Bucky:_ You know, like, I dare you to steal Tony’s car and drive it at one-hundred-forty-five miles per hour down a two lane road in the middle of the night.

 _Steve:_ That was pretty fun.

 _Bucky:_ Hell yeah, it was. Wanna do it again tonight? Maybe FRIDAY can set us up at an actual track so we can really push it? I have my eye on that red Lamborghini. I’m betting I can top it out even higher than the Bugatti. FRIDAY told me that Stark completely redesigned the engine, and…

           _(therapist note: re-direction)_

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Can we try to focus here? Steve, can you explain further how...

           _(therapist note: patient interruption)_

 _Steve:_ I asked Bucky to tell me the truth about his serial number. Once the Howling Commandos formed, and I learned how the numbers worked, I put two and two together. Bucky’s started with the numbers ‘three two’ which, in New York, meant that he was drafted, but he always insisted that it was a mistake or something; his form got fucked up, they got the tags mixed up in processing, blah blah blah. So, this morning, I asked him flat out to tell me the truth.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ And how did you interpret that truth?

 _Steve:_ That he lied to my face and made me feel like shit for years because he’s a fucking liar and an asshole. Are you recording this?

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Yes, all of our sessions will be recorded and transcribed for your files.

 _Steve:_ Then I’d like to restate my last observation really, really loudly for the official record. Bucky Barnes is a fucking liar and an asshole.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Bucky, can you share why you’ve kept this from Steve?

           _(therapist note: patient ignores inquiry)_

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Bucky, are you comfortable answering my question?

 _Bucky:_ Look at him! Even when I could pick him up under one arm and drag his skinny ass around the neighborhood, he was always the personification of American values and patriotism! You can’t even begin to understand how bad he wanted to go to war, how quick he was to run to every enlistment office like a fucking idiot, when all I wanted to do was keep him home and safe! How about you use your fancy psychiatric degrees to tell me if the great Steven Grant Rogers would have still wanted to be with someone who the government had to force to go to war? Actually, fuck that, a high school dropout can answer that question while they’re stoned out of their mind! Drumroll please...the answer is, no fucking way! Then, it got even better! This dipship jumped out of a private plane, that was under fire, into goddamn enemy territory in a body that he’d scientifically altered to get there! And the icing on the cake? He was calling himself Captain Fucking America! Do you think I was gonna fucking tell Steve that I’d lied after all that!? Jesus Christ, lady, I do some stupid shit sometimes, but I’ve never been a fucking idiot!

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Very insightful, Bucky. Thank you for your candor.

 _Bucky:_ Thank you for your candor? What is this? ‘Divergent’? Been raiding your teenage daughter’s dystopian YA library? Yeah, I read it, what? I’m definitely not fucking Dauntless! Well, at least not until Hydra zapped my brain enough to make me jump off of perfectly good trains during missions. Before Hydra, I just fell off.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Let’s try to focus on the positive. Steve, can you…

           _(therapist note: patient interruption)_

 _Bucky:_ Steve is fucking ‘Dauntless’, always has been, always will be, and I highly doubt that he would’ve wanted to come hang out with me in whatever fucking sector planted all the fucking vegetables.

 _Steve:_ I didn’t know you felt that way.

 _Bucky:_ No shit.

 _Steve:_ I wouldn’t have thought any less of you.

 _Bucky:_ Now who’s lying?

           _(therapist note: re-direction)_

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Steve, can you tell Bucky something that you appreciate about him?

 _Bucky:_ What, is this fucking marriage counseling or something?

 _Steve:_ I appreciate that Bucky says things like ‘is this fucking marriage counseling?’ to a highly trained professional.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Steve, okay, that’s a good start, but can we dive a little deeper? Try replacing the word ‘Bucky’ with the word ‘you’, and look at him when you say it.

 _Steve:_ That’s oddly specific.

          [Audio Gap]

 _Steve:_ I appreciate that you’re next to me every morning when I wake up...I don’t know how to say this...I’m just thankful that you’re real.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Wonderful. See, now we’re making some positive steps. Bucky, can you tell Steve something that you appreciate about him?

 _Bucky:_ [unintelligible]

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Can you say that a little louder, Bucky?

 _Bucky:_ Thank you for never giving up on me.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Let’s end on that note, gentlemen, and I’d like to see you both individually before we have another group session. But first, I’d like to suggest something that could help both of you with your stress, PTSD, as well as promote healthy interaction between the two of you.

 _Bucky:_ Another round of Truth or Dare?

          [laughter]

 _Dr. Mayz:_ No. In fact, I’m recommending that you don’t ever play that again, unless you’re in a safe environment with a licensed professional.

 _Bucky:_ Steve, we’re too fucked up for middle school party games.

 _Steve:_ Maybe we should stick to something more simple like ‘This little piggie went to market’?

 _Bucky:_ He has a kinky foot fetish. You should probably put that in your notes.”

 _Dr. Mayz:_ No, I will not be putting that in my notes.

           _(therapist note: Steve Rogers/possible foot fetish)_

 _Dr. Mayz:_ We’re getting off track again. I’m suggesting that the two of you get a therapy dog. There’s a wonderful program that I can refer you to that matches up veterans with trained dogs that can provide…

 _Bucky:_ What? That’s a horrible idea! I can’t even take care of myself, I don’t want the responsibility of taking care of another living thing!

 _Steve:_ I forgot to feed _Bucky_ lunch yesterday, and he even told me that he wanted a hamburger.

 _Bucky:_ I told him three times, but he was ‘painting’.

 _Steve:_ Why did you say it like that? I was painting!

 _Bucky:_ I don’t know. I just felt like it. I’m brain damaged, I don’t have a clue why I do half the things I do.

 _Steve:_ You can only use that as an excuse for so long.

 _Bucky:_ Are you really saying that having my mind wiped for seventy years has an expiration date for pity?

 _Steve:_ Yes.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ So, back to the therapy animal. If you don’t want the responsibility of a dog, perhaps you would consider a kitten?

 _Steve:_ I’d be afraid I’d step on it.

 _Bucky:_ Or sit on it.

 _Steve:_ Or roll over on it when I’m sleeping.

 _Bucky:_ Or it would stare at us while we’re having sex! Clint says his dog, Lucky, does that...and he lets him!

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Well, then, um, perhaps an adult cat. There are so many older animals in need of a loving home. That could be a great option for the two of you.

 _Bucky:_ What would we do with it?

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Um, that is a really weird question…

 _Steve:_ Is it professional for you to call his question weird?

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Um, no, you’re absolutely right. I’m sorry. All questions are valid here. Let’s see… Typically you’d take care of it and do things like pet it, brush it…

 _Bucky:_ Have you seen my hair? I tried to brush it this morning, but there was something sticky dried in it and the brush got stuck. Mr. Big Load here had to help me get it untangled, hence the top knot.

          [laughter]

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Fine. You’re right. This is too much for today. We accomplished a lot, let’s be happy with that. Perhaps we can revisit the therapy animal next time. How about you think about it, and we’ll schedule individual sessions for Wednesday.

 _Bucky:_ Nope.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Nope?

 _Bucky:_ You told me to be honest...and I’m honestly _not_ gonna do that.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Think about the cat or come back on Wednesday?”

 _Bucky:_ Steve, do you want a cat?”

 _Steve:_ Nope.

 _Bucky:_ Do we have other plans on Wednesday?”

 _Steve:_ Sure do.

 _Bucky:_ Then that’s settled, Dr. Mayz. We won’t be doing either of those things.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ But you made really good progress, and, based on my assessment, I think that both of you should be seen at least three, four times a week...maybe five.

_(therapist note: patients exit session against medical advice.)_

_Dr. Mayz:_ Gentleman, one session is not enough…

 _Bucky:_ Fuck cats!

 _Steve:_ Yeah, fuck those fuzzy things!

 

00:29:17 [End Excerpt from Recorded Material]

           _(therapist note: investigate heavy duty stress balls as Captain Rogers crushed the one presented to him in session)_

 

Therapist Comments: deferred until after at least three glasses of wine.

 

**The Similarities between Truth and Hairballs                         Tuesday, July 11, 2017- 3 pm**

Bucky’s stupid underwear were jammed so far up his ass crack that he couldn’t walk straight; the sweat acting like Super Glue or something and trying to suck his gym shorts in too. He tried to be subtle about his butt digging as they made their way down the hall towards their apartment, but, fuck, it was hard to use a malfunctioning hand to get a hold of them to pull them back over his left cheek. On attempt number three Bucky stumbled into one of the modern sculpture things that littered the compound. Steve had explained that the curving bronze arcs of this particular toe stubbing hazard represented the ‘search for enlightenment’. Bucky’s critical assessment was that it looked like five bent pieces of metal designed to impale people whenever they walked by. He’d officially renamed it ‘The Death Star’, which made no sense, but it sounded cool and made Steve laugh every single time that Bucky blurted it out.

“Shit! The Death Star just tried to blow me up again!” Bucky yelled, untangling his t-shirt from the tallest prong. “I never did anything to fucking Darth Vader! That asshole killed his _own_ mom!”

“Darth Vader didn’t kill his mom, Buck. You could argue that he had a hand in killing his wife, torturing his daughter, and hacking off his son’s hand…”

“But that’s not as funny,” Bucky interrupted.

Steve looked back over his shoulder and laughed, and, of course, his tight as fuck ‘Hawkeye’ shorts were perfectly in place on his tight little ass. While Steve had been in the shower this morning, Bucky had hidden every single pair of shorts that they owned underneath the kitchen sink, leaving only the ones with Clint’s official logo stamped all over them in the drawer. Steve had not been pleased.

“You’ve made that joke at least fifty times, Buck.”

“And I see that you’re still sticking up for Vader and laughing at it, so why mess with a winning formula?” Bucky chuckled and jogged a few paces to fall in step behind Steve, his hair falling out of the bun at the base of his neck.

They’d decided to check out the new trampoline park in Albany to reward themselves for not killing each other yesterday, and had spent two hours flipping all over the place, blatantly ignoring the safety signs, launching themselves end over end into the foam pit, annihilating small children with foam balls in dodgeball, and eating two entire greasy pizzas. And now, Steve was walking in front of Bucky with his gloriously sweaty body plastered to his white tank top and wearing those goddamn tight shorts... God, Bucky wanted to just strip Steve down and do _everything_.

Whistling, Bucky let his eyes zone in on the slight jiggle of Steve’s ass. “I like making up with you.”  

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Bucky grabbed Steve’s shirt and yanked him backwards, whispering in his ear, “It almost makes me want to unleash another horrible Truth, just so I can watch you jump around on a trampoline again. I love it when you get all sweaty.”

“I still think that it was a bad idea with your shoulder…”

All forward motion stopped as Bucky waited to see if Steve would catch himself.

“I like it when you’re sweaty too, baby,” Steve murmured. “Especially when I catch you digging your underwear out of your ass. It’s so sexy.”

Damn, that was so fucking nice! Not the wedgie part, but the understanding, the adjustment, the change, and, quite frankly, it turned Bucky on. Roughly grabbing Steve’s shoulder, Bucky shoved him up against the wall a few feet down from their door, the impact knocking the square contemporary painting that was supposed to represent ‘hope’ off it’s nail. The black lines that shifted to color reminded Bucky of the test pattern that used to come on late at night after the television stations had gone off the air. There was a memory of The Soldier, somewhere in the seventies, getting upset that the reruns of ‘Welcome Back Carter’ had been replaced with the irritating stripes and the endless buzz. He was pretty sure he’d shot the TV with his Glock, then had promptly been put back on ice. Maybe that’s why he loved his striped socks so much but hated the stupid painting with a passion?

He kicked it down the hall, sending it tumbling until it landed face down next to The Death Star, then licked his lips, ghosting them over Steve’s. “The only ‘bad idea’ was breaking six trampolines!” Bucky firmly took hold of Steve’s hips, pressing down on his hip bones as he barely let their dicks touch.

“Hey, the kids wanted to see cool tricks, so I showed them cool tricks,” Steve moaned. “It’s not my fault they broke. Mmm, Bucky, god that feels...”

Bucky’s hands had found their way underneath the waistband of Steve’s shorts, his fingers sliding in the sweat at the top of his ass. “ _Six_ of them, Steve. Showing off like that...naughty, naughty.”

“Yeah, well, you bent the basketball rim, oh, fuck.” Steve gasped as Bucky’s fingers slid even lower.

“That I did, that I did.” Bucky nodded, all slow and sensual as he pressed one finger against him, just enough to tease, to let Steve know what he wanted.

“Buck, I need a shower.” Steve rocked backwards just enough to let Bucky know that he wanted it too.

“Yeah, you’re disgusting.” Bucky bit the side of Steve’s neck, tasting the salt. But it didn’t make Bucky stop this time; there was no burning sensation creeping down his throat to explode through any of his missing parts, it just tasted like Steve. “God, baby, you taste so bad that I wanna lick you all over.” Bucky gave Steve’s ass a little slap, then pulled his hand out and slammed it in the direction of the palm reader, missing and hitting the wall instead.

“Bucky, that hand was just touching my ass!”

“Yeah, did you like that? Wait five more seconds and a lot more than my hand is gonna...”

Bucky stopped mid-sentence because there was a note taped to their door; slapped on crooked, scrawled with black Sharpie on a piece of copy paper, and stuck up with a shit load of red electrical tape. “What the hell?”

Steve must have forgotten all about the butt sweat on the wall because he jumped behind Bucky to stare too, reading the words slowly, like that would clarify the situation. “Watch your step. Love, Tony.”

The situation was not clarified.

“What the hell does that mean?” Bucky poked at the tape and honestly felt fear. Tony Stark might be his new bestie, but Bucky still wasn’t completely confident that he wouldn’t have a change of heart at some point. The note could be hinting at landmines buried underneath their carpet.

Steve’s pinched eyebrows suggested that he was equally concerned about booby traps. “I don’t think I want to find out.”

There they stood, and stood, and stood; two super soldiers completely afraid to open the door to their own apartment. Whatever was behind door number three, whether it was as innocuous as a fruit basket, as deadly as a firing squad of automated Iron Man suits, or as fun as a singing stripper in a construction worker outfit, Tony’s note had already ruined the sweaty sex mood; which fucking sucked! Now Bucky was gonna have blue balls!

“I’m getting bored standing here.” Bucky kept staring at the note, then growled at it, because the beauty of all that sweat dripping down between Steve’s wide shoulder blades, perfectly following the curve of his back as they gave the reverse cowboy a go...all of it was gonna be wasted!

“Yeah,” Steve muttered.

Oh, and not just that. Stark was fucking up much more than Bucky’s plans to play stallion. “And I really wanted that blow job that you promised me.”

“Yeah.”

“Unless you just wanna go to town right here in the hallway. I mean, _I’m_ down for that.” Bucky ventured a look at Steve, hopeful that he was about to get his _love rocket_...okay, he couldn’t even think that...hopeful that he was about to slide his cock all the way down the back of Steve’s throat.

“Yeah.”

No fucking way! “Yeah!? Oh my god, Steve, yes!” Bucky’s dick jumped, and he immediately started pulling down his shorts.

“What!? No! I wasn’t listening to you!” Steve had the nerve to look shocked that Bucky was standing in the middle of their highly travelled hallway with his sweaty cock and balls out and his shorts straining against his thighs. “Oh my god, put your dick away!”

Bucky did not put his dick away.

“Oh, c’mon, Steve. Do you see how turned on I am right now? You’re gonna look so sexy…”

“Fuck it,” Steve rudely interrupted, slamming his palm on the reader. Bucky was in no way prepared for what they were confronted with when the door swung open.

Steve’s jaw dropped to the floor, and Bucky’s shorts dropped the rest of the way to his ankles, because they were face to face (or dick to face) with an _apartment full of fucking kittens!_ Not one or two kittens, like, an _uncountable number of kittens!_ Bucky pushed Steve into the apartment, because he didn’t feel like chasing a million kittens around the complex! Waddling in after him, Bucky tried not to trip on his shorts as he quickly shut the door behind them. They both slammed their backs against it and stood there on their tiptoes in shock. What the hell else were they supposed to do!?

“Why is our apartment full of rats?” Bucky quickly pulled up his pants, because putting on a dick show for innocent baby animals was creepy in every way that something can be creepy. He felt like a sex offender, but for kittens. He was a creepy kitten flasher, and Ross was gonna add that to his long list of crimes!

“Rats aren’t this fluffy,” Steve peeped (yes peeped). His face looked like he was surrounded by hundreds of sinister Banana Spiders in the wilds of The Amazon and they were closing in on his position with their long spindly legs, or like he’d been thrown into a pit filled with a thousand poisonous snakes while searching for the Ark of The Covenant. Totally and completely _freaked out_!

Bucky pointlessly lifted up one leg as a black rat ran towards him at full speed, then boisterously rolled over on top of his foot. “Steve, it’s touching me.”

An orange one, with a crazy look in its eyes, leapt at a gang of them that were cuddled up on the couch, scaring the shit out of the whole lot and making them explode in all directions; leaping off the armrests, hiding under the throw pillows, diving behind the coffee table that they still hadn’t put back (they were having a stubborn competition too), and a white one leapt three feet into the air and climbed straight up the curtain. Since the curtain was white too, Bucky was gonna call that one ‘Camo Rat’. Two more had discovered Steve’s shoelaces and were rolling around like lunatics, and Steve and Bucky _still_ didn’t move.

“How did Tony know about this?” Steve tried to shake them off his foot, but they only got more excited, latching on and refusing to let go of his shoe.

“Um, I might have mentioned it while Tony was putting in the new shoulder plate yesterday afternoon.”

“You talked about our therapy session with Tony!?” Steve yelled, making another round of kittens popcorn all over the living room. Bucky honestly didn’t know that kittens could jump that high!

“No, dipshit. I talked about how much I hate cats in the context of Dr. Mayz’s stupid idea. Ow!” The black one, Bucky was gonna call it ‘Black Rat’, had leapt up to catch the bottom of his shorts and was free climbing his leg, digging it’s little claws through the mesh fabric and right into his skin. “Jesus, jesus, get it off me!” When it had made it all the way up to the top of his thigh, Bucky realized that ‘Black Rat’ needed an immediate name upgrade, because the little fucker and its claws bore a striking resemblance to a certain someone who did the same thing with vibranium. Bucky declared this one ‘Black Panther’, because it was straight up badass.

Steve bent over and poked the striped brown one that was trying to kill his shoelace in the head.

“What are you doing, Steve?”

“I’m petting it!”

“No, you’re not! You’re poking it. That’s not how you pet something!” Bucky shook his leg, but Black Panther held firm. Maybe this little fucker could be T’Challa’s sidekick? Riding on his shoulder as he leapt through the jungle trees, or across the tops of cars, or onto the back of Bucky’s goddamn motorcycle. Black Panther and Black Panther Jr. takin’ down The Winter Soldier like a boss (and a fuzzy baby boss). He should make Steve draw a picture of that...cartoon style with the sound effects and everything...and send it to Wakanda...

“Like _you_ know how to pet a cat!” Steve poked the other one in its fat little black and white belly, and it immediately wrapped its claws around his hand and scratched the shit out of him. “What the…”

“Yeah, you’re a real pro.” Bucky cracked up as Steve struggled to get free, failing utterly. How could a man who had the ability to kick the shit out of pretty much everybody be at a loss when it came to fluffy critters? It was hilarious.

Black Panther had succeeded at its death defying ascent and was dangling dangerously close to Bucky’s dick, which was not safe. Kitten claws in the _pleasure rod_ ? Bad. Very, very, very bad. Reaching down, Bucky carefully scooped it up under its little butt, shaking it a little to release its hold, then cradled it in his hands to lift the thing in front of his face. It stared at Bucky, all wobbly and unsure. It was kinda cross eyed, which was... _endearing?_... then let out a horrible meow. It sounded like a dying rooster or something, but it didn’t look pissed, it looked...kinda cute.

Steve was losing the battle and had dropped to his knees, desperately trying to pry the kitten off of his hand. Not a wise move. He was only drawing the attention of more and more rats, and they were surrounding him like he was a big ‘ol hunk of cheese. “Bucky, help me!”

Black Panther licked the tip of Bucky’s thumb and it felt warm, like wet sandpaper, and, while it was totally disgusting, Bucky kinda liked it. “Steve, I have a problem.”

“No, _I_ have a problem!” There were at least ten of them surrounding him now, and Camo Rat had jumped excitedly onto his back. Since Steve’s tank top was white too, Camo Rat was already living up to its name. Bucky’d chosen well.

“I think I like Black Panther.”

“Well, he did protect you from the American Government and fix your brain, so that makes sense.”

“No, I think that I like this cat. I named it Black Panther.” Bucky was trying to figure out if one eye was crossed, or if it was both, and moved his hands a little closer to its face to investigate. The second that he’d determined that it was _both_ , the little thing licked Bucky’s nose, and it was...awesome!  “Steve, I dare you to kiss one!”

“I’m not kissing one of these things!” His next pathetic attempt to swat the very capable Camo Rat off of his back only succeeded making Steve lose his balance and fall over onto the carpet. It was probably mean, but Bucky was rooting for the kitten army. Landing on his side like a big ol’ baby, Steve quickly folded up in the foetal position, yelping as his body was infiltrated from all sides.

Bucky smiled, a warm gooey feeling filling his chest, and slid down the door to park his butt on the floor. That little nose lick had earned Black Panther a nickname, and when he set the puffy ball of fur on his knee, BP sat there, calmly watching Steve getting eaten alive by its allies.

There were kittens curled up in tight circles in the spots of sunshine by the windows, a grey one napping on it’s back in Steve’s discarded red underwear (also part of the stubborn ‘I’m not picking that up’ contest), several curious ones exploring the kitchen counters and knocking shit over, a splotchy one chewing at the corner of Volume Four of Bucky’s ‘Preacher’ comics (okay, that one had to die), and one with super long fur and a squished up face sitting on top of the bookcase, which, how the fuck did it get all the way up there!? Bucky decided to call that one Spider _Boy_ , because, let’s be real, Parker might be annoyingly strong and have gotten off a few lucky shots with his weird, sticky, spiderweb shit, but that little fucker was like thirteen!

Rolling onto his back in total kitten defeat, Steve grumbled, “I hate Tony.”

“Tony’s trying really hard.”

Steve’s hair was under attack; the black and white kitten grounding itself with its front paws then kicking the fuck out of his head with its back legs. It was a good strategy, one that Bucky had used on the real Black Panther when that beast of a man had straight up leapt on top of him in Bucharest. If Bucky hadn’t been in fight or flight mode, he might have gotten a little turned on.

Not even attempting to stop the flurry of kitten kicks, Steve quietly said, “I think Tony likes you more than me.”

“What are you talking about?” BP had started purring with its drowsy eyes half shut, and, fuck, if it wasn’t the cutest thing that Bucky’d ever seen. Tuning into the sound, he said, “Steve, I _murdered_ Tony’s family. The only thing that you’ve ever done wrong was to inspire Howard’s legendary man crush, so the poor kid had to listen to his dad rambling on and on about the great ‘Captain America’ the whole time he was growing up. Well, that and The Accords...and maybe lying to him about me...oh, and smashing the hell out of his suit and leaving him in Siberia. We really shouldn’t have left him in fucking Siberia! That was a total dick move on our part. But, aside from those tiny little issues, I don’t think that Tony could ever like me more than you.”

“Yeah, but since you got out of the hospital, the two of you have this chemistry or something. It’s like you finish each others…”

“Sandwiches,” Bucky interrupted, chuckling as he carefully moved over to lie next to Steve in the middle of the kitten war. Not wanting his fear of squishing puffy kittens under two-hundred-fifty pounds of muscle to come true, Bucky triple checked before relaxing into the carpet. BP seemed perfectly content to chill on Bucky’s chest, kneading its little paws in the chest hair sticking out the top of his tank top while staring right at Steve, who now had two kittens completely tangled in his hair and a pretty substantial row of scratches on his forehead. “Steve, don’t tell me that you’re jealous!? ‘Cause I’m not the one making out with two guys in a bathroom.”

As soon as the sentence had slipped out of his mouth, Bucky regretted it; a flash of wool fabric roughly scratching against his cheek, the sensation of choking on a thick cloud of cigar smoke…

“Fuck you,” Steve snapped, and Bucky deserved it.

Gently taking Steve’s hand, Bucky bent it up to touch BP’s soft black fur, trying to make up for his stupidity. “Steve, I’m sorry. It was supposed to be a joke. It slipped out and it wasn’t funny. I get it, okay? I’m not mad about it.” Pulling Steve’s fingers in slow strokes, the purrs got even louder, rumbling in its pudgy little belly. “I’m a one cat man. I mean, look at this, you’ve got fifteen kittens climbing all over you right now and I just have one. They all know the deal; there’s only room for one cat in my life, and that’s you, Steve.”

“That was a _stupid_ analogy,” Steve growled. “Basically, you’re saying that I’m a cat whore and you’re all high and mighty over there with your monogamous cat values.” He yanked his hand away fast enough that BP let out another dying howler monkey meow.

“Steve, I said I was sorry! I made a mistake, jesus. Suddenly I’m supposed to be fucking perfect? I don’t even know what we’re arguing about!”

“I know that I promised to support your choices, but...I just feel like...I don’t know how to explain it.” Steve squeezed his eyes shut and flapped his arms at the dual feline ninja attack still happening in his hair. “Would you _please_ get these things off my fucking head!” Steve swatted at them harder, shoving the black and white one hard enough that it hissed, and they both darted under the couch. It wasn’t nice. “You’re different around Clint, and now, with Tony, it just seems like...like you’re going to leave me behind.”

Well, that wasn’t true at all…

“Steve.”

“What?”

Bucky rolled onto his side, and BP shifted right along with him; casually climbing up onto Bucky’s hip and continuing to purr. Running fingers through Steve’s hair to try to repair the kitten damage, he said, “I _love_ that you don’t know who Chuck Norris is.”

“I know who Chuck Norris is!”

Bucky’s hand was swatted away, just like the poor kittens. Also not nice. But Bucky wasn’t gonna run and hide underneath the goddamn couch with Steve’s other victims, so he said, “Truth or Dare?”

Oh, the look on Steve’s face when he made eye contact was classic: saucy, pissed, defiant, lying, stubborn ‘little Stevie’ eye contact. “Really, Bucky? We’re not supposed to play that game anymore. Doctor’s orders.”

You bet your ass that Bucky returned the eye contact: fed up, annoyed, ‘are you fucking serious’, stubborn ‘Bucky in all forms’ eye contact, until Steve finally gave in. “Fine. Truth.”

 “Do you know who Chuck Norris is?”

Immediately Steve’s expression shifted from annoyed to pissed; caught red handed with his dick in the cookie jar...no, that wasn’t right at all...dammit. Assessment: Bucky’s brain still sucked. The point was, Steve looked like he was about to explode, and, in all honesty, it was hilarious.

Finally, Steve opened his stubborn mouth and mumbled, “I have no idea who Chuck Norris is.”

“I knew it!” Bucky cracked up, because the Truth had finally been revealed! Proving beyond a reasonable doubt that Steve had been pretending to understand Chuck Norris jokes for _months_! Pulling up his knees so they rubbed against Steve’s thigh, Bucky played connect the dots with the little Hawkeye circles on Steve’s shorts. “And you think I’m gonna leave you because you’ve never seen ‘The Delta Force’?”

“It sounds stupid when you say it like that,” Steve scoffed, scooching his butt over a few inches so that Bucky’s knees weren’t touching him anymore, and his finger couldn’t finish connecting the dots for the heart that he was making on Steve’s thigh. Jesus! Bucky was really fucking trying here...but Steve kept moving further and further away.

“Baby, c’mon. It’s not stupid.” Bucky tried one more time, resting the metal hand on Steve’s shoulder. “And, not to sound cliche, but I’m gonna totally sound cliche here, I love you just the way you are.”

“That’s a Billy Joel song.”

“Yes, it is!” Bucky was mildly impressed.

“Wanda played it for me a few days ago. She’s psychic. She says that she’s not, but I don’t believe her anymore. And now you just plagiarized Billy Joel to try to make me feel better.”

Smiling and wiggling towards Steve’s ear, he whispered, “Theft is the greatest form of flattery.”

“No, Bucky. It means that you’re too lazy to tell me how you feel in your own words.”

That was it. Bucky was the one who took his hand away this time, because no matter what he’d done in the past, he didn’t deserve this kind of crap from Steve. Not now anyway. Not when Bucky was trying his fucking best! “You know what, _Steve_ ,” he hissed, “you’re being a total _shit_ right now. Surrounded by adorable kittens and you’re being a fucking prick!”

“I thought you hated cats!” Steve yelled, swatting at Spider Boy who was sniffing at his fingers.

“I do!”

Cue stare down number nine-thousand-six-hundred-eighteen. But this time, Bucky didn’t care if he won.

“Well, if Billy Joel’s words aren’t good enough for you, then mine sure as hell won’t be either! Oh, and I take it back. I don’t love you ‘just the way you are’ right now, because your attitude fucking sucks!”

Bucky got up carefully, making sure that he didn’t step on anyone, or scare the kittens more than the yelling already had. Cradling BP in his good arm, he stepped over top of Steve and left him alone in his pile of kittens and anger, closing and locking the bedroom door behind him to take a much needed nap with his fuzzy new cuddle partner.

 

**The Nuclear Explosion of Truth and Bacon                      Thursday July 13, 2017- 9:30 am**

Tony really couldn’t believe what was happening in front of him. Despite the angry call from Steve about Tony’s generous kitten surprise and his insistence to ‘get these goddamn rats out of my fucking apartment, right now!’, despite Steve’s full fledged pouty diva attitude at the very successful adoption event that Wanda had set up yesterday (everyone loved kittens, _especially_ Avengers Kittens, and all fifty had been taken to their ‘forever homes’ in three hours), and despite Steve calling Bucky a ‘fucker’, and Bucky calling Steve a ‘dipshit’ far too many times to count, Tony still never would have expected the ‘War of the Roses’ married couple fight that was going down in the middle of the common room at the current moment.

He had new goals in life. FRIDAY had organized them into a list and was putting virtual gold stars next to them before Tony went to bed every night. It had been nine days since Bucky had returned to the compound from the top secret medical facility that Tony wisely maintained at the tower. It was housed a few floors above the altruistic ‘Center for Veterans and Victims of The Avenger’s Reign of Terror’ that had been part of the tower’s ‘sales’ agreement. What do you do when you destroy cities for a living? Well, you provide complimentary bagels, little cans of apple juice, and stock the waiting room with ‘People Magazine’ so your victims can begrudgingly stare at Steve’s face on the cover of the ‘Most Eligible Bachelor’ issue. Tony’s conscience was clear. Yeah, right. But back to the goals:

Tony’s Goals To Be A Better Man - If day ten was rolling out like this, Tony wasn’t holding out hope that he’d be earning any more stars before he tucked himself into his empty bed this evening.

 

  1. Don’t electrocute Bucky any more. Electrocuting people is bad.     9/9 Stars
  2. Fix Bucky’s arm. Electrocuting people is really bad.                        0/9 Stars
  3. Take calls from General Ross.                                                         0/9 Stars
  4. Cut back on drinking.                                                                     5/9 Stars
  5. Be nicer to Steve.                                                          10/9 Stars (bonus star for party)
  6. Personally check in with Parker every day.                                      2/9 Stars
  7. Do something to show Pepper you’ve changed.                              3/9 Stars



 

So here he was, participating in the traditional team breakfast at a normal, functional human being breakfast hour, eating some scrambled eggs and bacon with actual plain orange juice (without Vodka) instead of starting out his day out on his couch of despair with coffee, whiskey, a questionable piece of leftover pizza, a mind for vengeance, and nefarious plans to electrocute his parent’s killer. Breakfast had been going pretty well so far, except for Sunday morning when maintainance had turned off the bounce house with Tony still passed out inside, but other than that, the morning meal had been going well...

 

  1. Eat normal breakfast.                                                                 8/9 Stars



 

But not today. Instead of chirping Tweety birds joyfully flapping above his head, inspiring rays of overly-bright morning sunshine assaulting his eyes, and the joy of blissfully sliding a delicious piece of bacon into his mouth, a whole plate of it got whipped past Tony’s head and smashed into the goddamn refrigerator. The plate shattered like Tony’s dreams for a normal breakfast and his hopes for gold star number nine. The bacon was lost...the pig sacrificing his face for nothing.

“I can’t believe you just said that in front of everyone, Steve! I told you the truth so we could try to move forward, not so you could humiliate me!”

Oh, _Bucky_ had thrown the bacon, and with the goddamn arm that he’d pinky promised (with the spasming pinky) that he’d try to take it easy with...

 

> _Yes, Tony, I promise to rest the arm so I don’t fuck it up even more._
> 
> _Yes, Tony, I’ll keep it dry as much as possible._
> 
> _Yes, Tony, I know it makes your job harder when I throw plates of bacon as hard as I can at Steve’s head._

Who needed undented stainless steel refrigerators and unshattered plate glass windows anyway? Intact walls? Anyone? Does _anyone_ see a need for intact walls? Pool tables? Can everyone still play Eight Ball with a three foot gap in the middle of the table? Would it be better to put the shield back before playing? Something to ricochet the cue ball off of?

“You told Clint that the guy in DC touched my cock! I heard you whisper it to him! That was supposed to be between us!” Steve was screaming, and Tony made a mental note to call in a few more highly trained and vetted specialists to handle Mr. and Mr. Smith before they adopted a bunch of kids and shit _really_ got ugly. “You tell Clint _everything_ , so I’m pretty sure that he already knew about your secret activities at Rosie Gold’s! _And_ you told Tony about the fucking cats too! It’s obvious that you can’t keep your big mouth shut, and I’m not just talking about Tony and Clint!” Steve had raised his own plate of mighty bacon as he turned his attention to the guy who was just trying to make better choices on his normal stool at the normal kitchen counter. “Hey, Tony, wanna see a _trick_? Why don’t you pull out your wallet when Bucky’s around and see what happens.”

Well, there went Tony’s breakfast star.  

 

  1. Eat normal breakfast                                                                     8/10 Stars



 

Steve let the plate fly; the strips of piggy goodness landing everywhere while the green ceramic shards exploded against the wall right behind Bucky’s head. The impressive thing? Bucky didn’t even flinch. The scary thing? Bucky didn’t even flinch. The worst thing? Bucky looked more like The Soldier than Tony had seen since Berlin.

“Woah, man.” Barton shoved his chair at the big glass table backwards and stretched out his purple arm in front of Bucky’s chest.

Natasha stood up on the opposite side of the table, turning to point at Steve, who, luckily, was out of bacon. “Don’t talk to him like that, Rogers. I know you’re mad at Bucky right now, but you need to stop.”

FRIDAY had probably already taken his gold star away, so Tony might as well go all in. He got out of his stool, wiped his goatee with his napkin because he was a gentleman and had manners, unlike some people, and strutted right into the middle of the pork warzone. Kicking a few strips of bacon out of his way, Tony took position right in between them. The desire to call for Astro was real, but he didn’t want to lose that gold star too.

“Remember when I told you guys to be more honest? Well, you need to dial that back, because, Steve, the entire compound did _not_ need to know that Bucky used to suck gangster’s dicks to pay for your medicine, and, Bucky, you should _never_ call the man that you love a ‘big mouthed cunt’! I don’t care if he announced to everyone over fluffy eggs and phenomenal bacon...oh wait, that’s right, you threw your bacon at each other before you could eat it...so wasteful! My sage advice is that you shouldn’t call Steve a ‘cunt’, even if he spilled the beans that you used to be a whore.”

Bucky growled at him, and it wasn’t the kind of growl that Tony was used to...the kind where Bucky looked furious, like he was calculating the most efficient way to rip Tony’s head off while still gaining the satisfaction of crunching the bones between his fingertips, but then stopped himself...or Steve jumped in the middle to play Mommy and shut Bucky down himself. Not this time. This time when Bucky growled, he looked eerily similar to the moment when he’d shot Tony in the face. Technically, he didn’t _actually_ shoot Tony in the face, but The Soldier had pulled that trigger without a millisecond of hesitation, and if Tony hadn’t been so well prepared with his one itty bitty teeny tiny little gauntlet, it would have been lights out for the infamous Mr. Tony Stark. Clean up on aisle four, Hazmat crew, biohazard bags, and bleach... _so much bleach_...to clean up the remains of headless Iron Man in his six-thousand-dollar Tom Ford suit.

“Umm, hey there, Bucky. Need me to score you some Valium? I have a regular script, totally willing to share…”

 

  1. Use Prescription Medications as directed.                                                   4/10 Stars



 

Demonstrating his complete lack of understanding of their agreed upon metal arm rules, Bucky scooped up the rest of his scrambled eggs with his metal hand and whipped them right at Tony’s face. Not quite as frightening as a 9mm bullet heading for his brain at point blank range, but still pretty high up there on the scary scale. Tony was, coincidentally, wearing the same red glasses, but this time instead of gunpowder he was gonna have to pull out his handkerchief (another attribute of a gentleman with proper manners) and wipe the literal egg off his face.

Was that progress? Tony chuckled because Bucky had used non-lethal force in egg form. His handlers at Hydra would be so ashamed.

Sam walked into the room just as Steve unleashed another round of overblown righteous anger, and stared at Steve in disbelief. His reaction to the tirade was a very appropriate, “What the hell is going on here!?”

Steve ignored Sam completely.

“Don’t take this out on Tony!” Steve screamed, which, what? Tony did a double take, then a triple take, because the incredibly annoying Steven Grant Rogers was taking _his_ side. That had literally _never_ happened. Well, there was that time last month, when Tony had really wanted the last hamburger... Clint had made a grab for it, but Steve had snatched it out of his meaty paw and had given it to Tony instead. No explanation given. But that was it. So when Steve raged on, hollering, “You’re pissed at _me_ , Bucky! So take it out on _me!”_ Tony was touched.

Shaking the rest of the egg off his hand, Bucky sank back and collapsed into his chair. “So, that’s what you think of me, huh? I can’t believe you told Tony to pull out his wallet.”

“Well, _I_ can’t believe that you told me you were working extra shifts at the docks, when you were really sucking…”

“No! No way! Back off! I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but you are _not_ gonna finish that sentence!” Sam marched right over and shut Steve down , _thank god_ , because Steve was turning that shade of red that meant he was about to throw something, and Tony had no desire to fix anything else, _especially_ Bucky. He hadn’t even been able to put Bucky back together from Tony’s ill advised Dr. Frankenstein phase! If they’d all committed treason to save Bucky’s ass, and _then_ Steve decided to break _Bucky_ instead of another plate of bacon...that would take the proverbial cake, now wouldn’t it? The definition of ironic...and not the Alanis Morrissette definition...the _actual_ definition. Sam went for the deep, no nonsense Falcon voice when he stepped into Steve’s space and said, “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear the first time. I said back the hell up!”

“Why don’t you tell _Bucky_ to back up!”

“Well, _Steve_ , because you’re the one who seems to be out of line, and right now Bucky looks pretty damn calm.”

Tony pulled out the chair at the head of the table, next to Bucky, and took a swig of his coffee. “Even with that scruffy almost beard you look more chill than Steve. Seriously, Bucky, how fast does your hair grow? Are you dosing your facial hair with illegal steroids from Mexico? A little extra super soldier serum just for your beard? You look like Jesus, if Jesus was an assassin who wanted to murder his husband.”

Leaning around Sam, Steve yelled, “He’s not my husband!”

“Well, you’re sure acting like you’re married right now.” Clint chuckled and calmly ate his fruit salad, like an everyday Average Joe who pretended that he wasn’t involved with Natasha just to fuck with Tony. Popping a big chunk of watermelon in his mouth, Clint mumbled, “If you’re gonna fight like this, you might as well put a ring on it.”

“You know who thinks you’re funny, Clint?” Steve snapped. “Bucky! You know who doesn’t? Me!”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, boss, but General Ross has made an unscheduled visit.” FRIDAY sounded apologetic, which was a very welcome tone considering the complete _lack_ _of apologies_ occurring in the current conversation. “I’m having him escorted to the main conference room.”

Tony did not want to deal with this. Slamming the rest of his coffee, he tried really hard to get the point across to FRIDAY that this was _not_ something that he’d be dealing with this morning….“Not now, FRIDAY. He can arrest me later.”

“He’s being very insistent.”

“Don’t care. Tell him I’m putting him on hold.”

 

  1. Take calls from General Ross.                                                         0/10 Stars



 

Always the calm in the middle of the storm, Natasha said, “Bucky, why don’t you go take a walk?”

“I’m not going _anywhere_. We don’t do that anymore. We’re getting healthy. Our shrink said we’re making progress.”

“She did not! We went _once_ then blew her off! But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re lying... _again_ !” Steve was stomping around in a little circle now, like a very pissed off shark swimming around in a very tiny, very shallow pool, and Sam kept shifting to try to barricade him. “I swear to god, Bucky! You had the nerve to call me a _cat whore_ before _you_ walked out on _me,_ if I remember the situation correctly! Which I do, since I have an eidetic memory! So don’t you dare try to say that we don’t do that anymore!”

Natasha took the bullet and asked the question of the hour. “Cat whore?”

“What are you talking about, Steve!?” Bucky leaned forward on the table, and Tony couldn’t help but notice that vibration in the arm was getting worse. “I didn’t walk out on anything!”

“Yes, you did! You took that stupid rat to our room and locked the door! I’m surprised that you didn’t rip it into pieces and braid me a dead rat bracelet!” Steve was crying now. Captain America, or the former Captain America, whatever, was crying big crocodile tears and that was...uncomfortable.

Sam stopped herding the shark and gave Steve a look that said it all. “I don’t know why the hell you just said that, but that was really disgusting, man. I’m gonna say this because I love you; that was the most fucked up sentence that I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”

“Is that what you’ve been so pissed about?” Bucky switched from Christ-like assassin to repentant shepherd from Bethlehem pretty damn quick.

“Boss, General Ross is saying that if you aren’t there in three minutes he’s going to come up here himself.”

Not today. Not any day. But _especially_ not today. “Is he in the conference room, FRIDAY?”

“Affirmative.”

Tony slapped his palm on the table and gave the ceiling a big grin. “Lock him in and seal all corridor doors to contain anyone else that he brought with him.”

“Boss…”

“Just do it! We killed fifty-four people the other day, I don’t think a little false imprisonment charge is gonna make things any worse!” Tony’s fucking arm started tingling again. He needed to think of something sweet and calm, like sheep bouncing over white picket fences, or a babbling brook snaking its way through a lush Oregon forest...ah, there... it was safe in the woods, the ferns folding up around Tony and slowing down his heart as he calmly leaned back against a Bigleaf Maple tree...better...so much better...until Sasquatch Steve lunged at him from his angry cave!

“I tried to be honest, Bucky, and you walked out on me!”

Sasquatch Steve only cared about himself. He cared about hiding from the hunters, leaving just enough evidence to frustrate the conspiracy theorists, eating some wild mushrooms, and catching a salmon with his bare hands. He did not care about the man collapsed in the imaginary ferns who was desperately trying to stop another fucking panic attack!

Sam was so done. Tony saw it in his eyes. Patient Sam seemed to be a thing of the past. He made that perfectly clear by the way he snapped, “Maybe you should have kept a kitten, because the two of you are straight up in need of _something_ to calm your asses down!” He leaned over and grabbed Natasha’s half eaten blueberry muffin, before punctuating his point with a “Damn.”

“Or kept _all_ the kittens.” Tony interjected, because another brilliant idea was brewing, despite the tingling sensation in his lips. “I can get more. It was easy. I told FRIDAY to do it, and suddenly, there were kittens here. You want me to do it right now? FRIDAY, can you put in another order for...let’s say...two-hundred kittens, because obviously fifty didn’t…”

Sasquatch Steve interrupted, with his big Sasquatch roar, hollering, “We hate cats!”

Tony was back to wanting to punch Steve in those goddamn teeth.

 

  1. Be nicer to Steve.     (-3 because Tony _really_ wanted to punch him)           8/10 Stars



 

“No, _you_ hate cats!” Bucky growled. Great, now they were both acting like dangerous mythological forest animals.

The signature finger point was happening; attention, attention, Captain Rogers was giving the love of his life the classically aggressive gesture that he usually reserved for the bad guys. “Yeah, well, if you love cats so much now, _Bucky_ , then maybe you should’ve kept one to keep you company tonight, because I’ll be sleeping on the couch!”  

“Oh, shit...” Clint mumbled.

“Well, _Steve_ , you go right ahead and do that, because I _did_ keep a cat!” Bucky snipped, leaning back and crossing his arms with a smirk.

The finger dropped, but the attitude was still strong when Steve took a step forward and hissed, “What did you say!?”

“Oh, shit...” Natasha mumbled too.

The smile on Bucky’s face was probably the shittiest smile that Tony had ever seen, and Tony was the _king_ of shitty smiles! He owned the fucking patent on shitty smiles! But when Bucky blurted out, “In fact, I kept _two_ kittens!” Tony handed over the crown.

Leaning towards Bucky and throwing a hand up next to his mouth, Tony stage whispered, “You stole two cats!?”

“Nat, we should go…” Clint pushed back his chair and shook his head towards the door.

“Sit back down!” Steve ordered. Full on _ordered_.

A direct order that Clint was quick to follow, whistling before he said, “Ooo-kay.”

“You’re a cat burglar!?” Tony whispered louder at Bucky, who squinted back and mouthed ‘what?’

“Steve,” Sam started, “take a deep breath, man.”

“Did you know about this!?” Steve snapped at Natasha with a look of utter betrayal. Yeah, Tony knew the feeling.  

But seriously, Tony _had_ to know the answer to this mystery. “Bucky, I know you can hear me. Did you stuff a bunch of kittens in your pockets at the Adoption event?”

Natasha glanced at Steve in that way that said ‘of course, I knew’, and Steve rounded on Clint. “I'm sure you helped too!”

“Woah, man, I was just doing a friend a favor.”

“Steve, leave him alone,” Bucky interjected. “I asked Clint to watch them for a few days so I could break the idea to you slowly. You've been so fucking sensitive and…” Another violent spasm ran up Bucky’s side and twisted his neck hard enough that Tony flinched. The frustration on Bucky’s face was instantaneous. “Fuck!”

“You know what, Bucky!? How about you go and spend some time hanging out with your secret harem of cats and your new best friends. I'll be doing something else that I'm not gonna tell you about!”

“Fine!” Bucky yelled, but he didn't budge. “But I'm not the one leaving! _I can do this all day!_ ”

Stopping, Steve rolled his shoulders back just enough to prove that Bucky had landed his own low blow. “You didn't just say that to me.”

Bucky’s response? He shrugged. That was it.

Steve chuckled sardonically, and after a few seconds he nodded, set his jaw, and walked slowly out of the room. Tony almost wished that he’d thrown something.

 

  
**Kittens Don’t Care                                                                  Thursday July 13, 2017- 10 am**

Once Steve had turned his back on Bucky, there really wasn’t much to say. Even though everyone was staring at him expectantly, Bucky didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to say to clear things up for them. Usually, when Steve disappeared, Bucky itched to flip knives through the air over and over, the repetitive ‘thunk, thunk, thunk’ as each blade hit home letting him slip away to his own mother fucking alley. ‘Thunk, thunk, thunk’...the simplicity of a time when nobody knew who he was. ‘Thunk, thunk, thunk’...the simplicity of not even knowing who he was himself. ‘Thunk, thunk, thunk’...the simplicity of being quiet.

“Man, what the fuck is going on?” All the tension had fallen out of Sam’s shoulders, and he shook his head at Bucky with nothing but concern on his face. They _all_ had nothing but concern on their faces as they settled around the table...even Tony. Jesus, even Tony Stark was here for him, and the only thing that Bucky wanted to do was shut his rickety door in Bucharest and pretend that the memories he’d written in the journals hidden underneath the floorboards belonged to somebody else for a little while. But these were his friends. _Bucky_ had _friends_ , and they deserved to know.

“We just had our first real fight.”  

Clint put a hand on Bucky’s knee and asked, “Since Bucharest?”

“No,” Bucky whispered. “ _Ever_.”

As much as it felt crazy to say that, Bucky couldn’t remember a time when they’d ever fought like that. Sure, his brain wasn’t exactly reliable, but he was positive that something as horrific as that would have stuck. If Bucky could remember the time that Stevie had yelled at him for forgetting to feed their neighbor Dita McGregor’s cat...it had been a cat...that was a new addition to the movie... then fighting to the point where Bucky really thought that Steve was done with him should be there in some capacity. Staring at the empty chair, where Steve usually sat when they ate breakfast, Bucky thought about pancakes. But Steve’s plate was still sitting there...empty.

“I mean, I know that Steve has always thought that you shit diamonds, even when you were a total murder bot, he still fought the world to protect you, but _never!?_ ” Tony scoffed. “That’s crazy!”

“Come back to my place, we can pull out some of my ‘Pearl Jam’ CDs, and I can introduce you to one of the best rock voices of my generation.” Clint always knew what to say. Why the hell did Clint always know what to fucking say when it was supposed to be Steve?

Tony rolled his eyes and chuckled, “Why do you and Romanoff insist on keeping up this ridiculous facade!? I _know_ that you live together! The charade is up! And I’m voting for Chris Cornell as the defining rock voice of the generation.”

Natasha ignored Tony completely, getting up to walk around the table. She whispered something just for them into Bucky’s ear. “Medvezhonok, I have Russian Tea Cookies.”

Just the sound of her voice made Bucky feel better, and he could taste the powdered sugar already. “Yeah, Clint, I’ll take you up on that. I feel like snuggling with Black Panther anyway.”

“Excuse me?” Sam choked.

Poor Sam. Bucky and Steve always put him through so much…but even worse was Tony. God, if Bucky could wrap Tony in a big fluffy blanket, tuck him in next to a roaring fire, and give him steaming mugs of hot chocolate until his big, brown eyes got sleepy, he would.

“Hey, Tony. You should come over and try it. He’s really soft.”

“Did you just invite me to have a threesome!? Do you have T’Challa stashed in Clint _and_ Natasha’s apartment too!?”

Bucky wiped his eyes and blew his nose in his napkin, then threw it in the middle of Steve’s empty plate. What was on the infinite breakfast menu on this fine day? Snot and tears.

Pushing himself to his feet, Bucky gave Tony a sad smile. “No, not T’Challa, just a couple of cute kittens who don’t care how many dicks I had to suck in 1934 to make ends meet.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find Lorien/drjezdzany here
> 
> [Drjezdzany](http://drjezdzany.tumblr.com/tagged/my-art/)
> 
>  
> 
> Find lucidnancyboy/Jessie Lucid Art here 
> 
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/)  
> [Tumblr](https://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com/)
> 
> We adore comments and kudos! We spin around in circles when we get them! So, if you feel the desire to make us get really dizzy fire some our way. :) Thanks for reading!
> 
> Chapter Two Musical Inspiration:
> 
> Highly Suspect- "Little One"  
> Default- "Taking My Life Away"  
> Bassnectar- "Music is the Drug"  
> Julia Michaels- "Issues"


	3. Unicorns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood Music for this story can be found here [JessieLucidYouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLbGnycMfOsiCQkT2OKUZFlpvhm8PRw5MA)
> 
> Specific songs that inspired Chapter 3 are listed in the end notes.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)

                     

 

**Jasmine and Cigars                                                               Thursday, July 13, 2017- 4 pm**

Steve was probably gonna be pissed that Bucky had ‘borrowed’ his motorcycle then had driven it over two-hundred miles to the East Village with his arms firmly wrapped around Natasha. But since he was already the maddest that he’d ever been at Bucky, why the hell did it matter at this point?

Wiggling strings and shit around in front of the kittens had only taken his mind off of things for so long. When Bucky’d tried to teach Black Panther to perch on top of his head while he’d babbled to Camo Rat like a baby, saying things like ‘who’s the biggest dick in the world? That’s right. Steve is,’ as he’d poked her in the belly, Natasha had kissed the top of Clint’s head, said ‘we’ll be back later’, then had hauled Bucky up by the armpit.

Natasha had actually listened to Dr. Cho’s very clear instructions that Bucky wasn’t supposed to be driving or piloting _anything_ until they were absolutely positive that the seizures were under control, which was no fun at all. When Bucky had confidently swung his leg over Steve’s bike and had said ‘let’s go’, she’d shaken her head like an overprotective mom, pushed backwards on his chest, and had slid right in front of him like she’d belonged there. Bucky’d decided not to tell her about the Bugatti.

Speeding down the highway, it had felt really good to lean into the curves with her, remembering once upon a time when The Soldier had taught her how to use her body weight to pull the curve that much tighter, to find the line of the road and accelerate into the straightaways. The bike had been a Soviet built M-72 and had been loud as fuck. Bucky could remember how much The Soldier had liked the feel of it vibrating between his legs and how Natalia’s thin arms had reminded him of something undefined whenever she’d clasped them around his stomach; the contact of the petite thighs squeezing around The Soldier’s hips had always made him wonder why her hair wasn’t blonde. As more and more came back to Bucky, it had become perfectly clear why Natasha had been so hurt that he’d forgotten everything.

For some reason, remembering his time training Natalia in The Red Room didn’t bother him like remembering the long summer days in Brooklyn with Stevie or the cold nights trudging through the snow in Austria with Captain America did. Maybe it was because Natasha didn’t have any unrealistic expectations for Bucky to be who he was back then. She wasn’t looking at him across the room and wishing that he was still The Soldier. Bucky still caught Steve searching for James Buchanan Barnes; despite their new questionable dedication to honesty and the intimacy of the other night. You go backwards, you go forwards, and sometimes...if you’re ‘special freezable humans’ like Steve and Bucky...you stop altogether. To be honest, when Natasha pushed the bike even faster as they crossed the wide expanse of a bridge...the sound of the engine reverberating off the concrete barricades that were meant to keep people out of the river...Bucky didn’t know which way he was headed; only that the wind felt fucking amazing on his cheeks and he was enjoying the ride.

They hadn’t even thought about _looking_ at the helmets hanging on the wall in the climate controlled garage where Steve kept his bike, and FRIDAY had once again turned a blind eye to Bucky’s grand theft auto and had happily opened the gates. Without helmets in the way, Bucky had been able to rest his head on the back of her shoulder when Natasha had run into the heavy traffic heading into New York City, letting the pieces of hair that had escaped her ponytail wash over his face as she weaved between honking yellow taxis, boxy delivery trucks, and frightened tourists in gas efficient rent-a-cars. Wanda had obviously passed along some of her homemade shampoo to Natasha too; Bucky could smell the hints of eucalyptus every time a red strand got close to his nose. But it was mixed with something sweeter than the sage in Bucky’s batch...perhaps jasmine? Breathing deeply, the word ‘pretty’ floated across his mind and something else came back to him. The Soldier, on mission somewhere warm and wild, as Natalia had neared the end of her training…

 

 

> _The Soldier waits for two hours thirteen minutes in position on the rooftop; eye glued to the scope of the_ _Barrett M82A1M sniper rifle_ _, unmoving, waiting for The Black Widow to lure the target from inside the dinner party to the west veranda. The Soldier observes The Widow leading the target into range and pretending to enjoy dancing with him, smiling slyly in her pretty black dress and whispering something in the man’s ear before she spins away from him in the night air, her dress lifting upwards with the motion. The Soldier takes the shot, exploding the targets brains onto the row of bushes behind him; lush, healthy, night blooming jasmine. The wind changes direction and The Soldier smells their perfume, even at nine-hundred yards. The Soldier waits seventeen minutes for The Widow to return while hunkered down in the northeast corner. When she approaches, her delicate black heels dangle from her fingers and the grin on her face is playful. The Soldier waits until she kneels down in front of him, placing a sprig of jasmine in the hair above his ear, before he says, ‘That was beautiful.’_

 

That has always been Natasha’s greatest weapon; the ability to catch her prey off guard with her beauty. Whether her target was a man committing treason against the motherland in places warm and wild, or a Soldier, out of cryo too long, who’d known just enough to inhale the scent of night blooming jasmine off the tips of Natalia’s delicate and deadly fingers before he’d carefully touched her cheek.

The ever expanding snippets featuring Natalia proved that Bucky had _always_ thought she fought better in pretty dresses with stocking feet, and that he’d encouraged her to use that power to exploit the weaknesses of men before taking everything that she needed. The first memory that had come back to him after he’d seen Natasha at Leipzig was a nine second movie that was far from complete. Bucky still couldn’t remember what had happened before or after...

 

 

> _The Soldier leans against a marble column dressed in a black tank top. The arm has recently been upgraded. The red star is new. The Soldier watches as the girl breaks a man’s neck with her thighs then drops the body to the ground. She raises her eyebrows, speaking in strongly accented English. ‘My_ _medvezhonok is tired today? Is this why you stand and watch me?’_

 

Bucky could remember altering his orders that day. The Soldier had been programmed to help The Widow eliminate the target, but he’d deemed intervention unnecessary. The Soldier had made the decision to stand back and watch...The Soldier had _admired_ her.

Holding on to Natasha with his eyes closed, trusting her to navigate the motorcycle through the chaos of cars towards The East Village, _Bucky_ knew that _he_ admired her too. The Soldier had been captivated by the element of surprise; the subtle way a slip of a girl with a dimpled smile and a bouncing ponytail could turn on a dime to instantly neutralize her prey. Bucky still appreciated those qualities, but now, it was also the way that she loved Clint in this new life; helping him to heal in ways that she would never require herself, standing by Clint’s side as his crow’s feet deepened after every mission, and trying to get him to cut back on his salt intake with horrible Kale chips. Natasha herself looked like she’d aged maybe ten years in the sixty-nine since The Soldier had first touched her ponytail, and she wasn’t gonna be able to disguise that forever now that she had a family. Taking another long whiff of the jasmine in her hair, Bucky knew that Steve had been right about Wanda; she _was_ psychic.

Suddenly, the bike swerved into a parking spot...well, sort of a parking spot. Natasha had pulled into a nondescript alley and had angled the motorcycle behind a dumpster so it wouldn’t be visible from the street. Lifting his nose away from Natasha’s hair, everything that Steve was furious at Bucky about came rushing back the second he smelled the rotting trash. He could almost feel the bruises on his knees...

 

> _...wait behind the dumpster. Understand?..._

It had been the first job he’d done for the gangsters who’d hung out by the payphones in the back of Rosie Gold’s candy shop. Before transporting laundered money, before keeping a lookout for other boys, or gals, who’d been trying to get by, Bucky’d been sent to wait behind countless dumpsters overflowing with the garbage life in the city created.

Gaspar Milazzo, the biggest one with the bushy moustache who’d claimed the stool next to the storage room door as his own, had been watching Bucky struggling to pull enough coins out of his pockets to pay for Steve’s red licorice. There had been subtlety in the way Gaspar’s eyes had tracked Bucky through his clouds of cigar smoke, but Bucky’d always felt his gaze lingering whenever he’d used his charm to sweet talk old Mrs. Rosie Gold into letting him short her a few pennies. Milazzo had been waiting, watching for the perfect opportunity to grab ahold of Bucky’s wrist when Steve’s nose had been buried deep in the glass jars. Bucky remembered it clearly; the way Steve’s long fingers had been tapping a delicate pattern on the glass as Gaspar had pulled Bucky level with his cigar scented mouth, whispering, ‘I’ve been watchin’ you, kid, and I’ve got a real easy way for you to make some good money so you can buy your sweetheart whatever he wants’.

Yanking his wrist away from Gaspar’s rough hand, Bucky had earned Steve’s candy by winking at Rosie Gold that day, but Milazzo had patiently watched and waited some more; filling the store with thick clouds of smoke and blowing it towards Bucky every time he’d walked past the row of payphones to lift another heavy box of Mars Bars for Rosie. Even though it had been April and the weather had finally turned warm, Milazzo hadn’t had to wait long. It had only taken a few weeks for Steve to come down with pneumonia again, and another three days for Bucky and his ma to run out of money. On the fourth day, Bucky had slowly walked down the crooked sidewalk towards Rosie Gold’s without Steve by his side for the very first time.

He’d been sixteen-years-old when he’d opened his mouth for the very first time in the back of a Ford Model 18 for a former bootlegger turned loan shark named Peter Pinzolo. Bucky’s price? Two dollars for fifteen minutes. One dollar had gone in Gaspar Milazzo’s pocket, the other in Bucky’s, which then had quickly found itself inside the cash register at Longos Pharmacy. Bucky’d used the cash from his first trick to buy two days worth of pneumonia antiserum under the counter from Franco Filini, who’d been known to peddle guns as well as medicine. Two days worth hadn’t been enough, Bucky’d known that the second that Filini had told him that was all the medicine that Bucky’s single dollar would buy, so the next day, Bucky had gone back to Rosie Gold’s and had found himself in the alley behind the dumpster. He’d returned home with eight more days worth of medicine that afternoon, plus a loaf of bread and a bushel of apples for his ma, and a stick of rock candy for Becca. The next morning, when Steve had woken up in a puddle of sweat from his broken fever, smiling at Bucky like he’d saved the world, he’d convinced himself that his knees hadn’t really been _that_ bruised.. that his jaw hadn’t really been _that_ sore…

After that, Bucky had gone to Rosie’s by himself at least two or three times a week, sometimes more, only to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand when he’d finished taking care of business and make his way to see Filini, to buy dinner from the market, or to square up with the landlord. Gaspar had sent Bucky to the backseats of cars, the sunken mattresses of bedbug infested motels, and to the storage room of Rosie Gold’s, where Bucky had opened his mouth, and yes, men had opened their wallets, behind the boxes of Mars Bars, Sugar Daddies, and the cases of Red Vines still sealed in their wrappers. All for a dollar a pop, and all for Stevie.

When Bucky had finally gotten up the nerve to kiss Steve in their own alley that summer, then later, to nibble that strand of licorice out of Stevie’s perfect little mouth, Bucky had tried not to think about cigar smoke clogging his lungs or zippers scratching his chin. And when Bucky had knelt down on his creaky bedroom floor, opening his lips to allow Steve to slide inside, it had killed him that Steve’s cock hadn’t been the first to touch his tongue; because it should have been...it fucking _should have been_...

“C’mon, medvezhonok,” Natasha said, pulling him back to another alley, in another time, where he was still being punished for his sins. Holding out her hand, she helped Bucky off the motorcycle before squeezing his fingers. “I know something that will help cheer you up.”

  


**Unicorns Will Turn On You                                                Thursday, July 13, 2017- 4:45 pm**

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Bucky.” Natasha adjusted her ponytail and shook her head at him like he was a complete idiot.

He had to give her that. Bucky was _definitely_ a complete idiot, but he didn’t give a shit at the current moment. He’d rather prop his chin up on his hand and stare at Natasha’s face across the little table at Starbucks. Without makeup she looked even younger, which was probably why she wore some very serious eyeliner most of the time. Bucky imagined that her pink t-shirt with the big smiley face emoji stamped on the front was to throw the Feds even further off their trail. Add in the completely clueless expression that she skillfully plastered on her face whenever someone dared to approach their table, and Bucky understood why her ‘no disguise’ disguise worked as well as it did. Nobody would mistake a ditzy twenty-something-year-old for the deadly Black Widow! If only Bucky could be so lucky...but you can’t hide a shiny metal arm with emojis and cluelessness. Nope. He had to resort to boiling his ass off in a long sleeved, hunter green henley, ripped jeans, and a ‘Patriots’ baseball hat that he’d stolen from Steve.

“Natasha, sweetheart, honeypie, whatever do you mean it’s not a good idea!? Seriously, you really should’ve tasted the first one! Whoever invented the Unicorn Frappuccino was a fucking genius! _You’re_ a genius for telling me about it! First it was sweet, then it was sour, then it was kinda gross, but you were right, I feel so, so, so much better!”

“It’s because you’re having a sugar rush. You shouldn’t have ordered a Trenta.”

Bucky did feel kinda high, but it was a lot better than the bullshit flashbacks that he was dealing with in the alley, so he exclaimed, “There’s no such thing as too much unicorn deliciousness!”

“You sound like an obnoxious teenager right now.” Natasha rolled her eyes and pushed her phone toward him. “Do you need to take a selfie with your Unicorn Frappuccino and post it on your Instagram?”  

“If I had an Instagram, I totally would!” Bucky laughed and set his hat on the table, wondering why he didn’t have an Instagram. He needed an Instagram! He could post kitten pictures! Kittens sitting in the sink! Kittens hiding in his combat boots! Kittens curled up into little furry spheres! Kittens, kittens, kittens!

The barista yelled out, “Cat Lover?” and Bucky jumped up out of his seat, shaking the whole table when he hit the corner with his thigh. The pain didn’t register because sugar sugar sugar sugar sugar!!!

“That’s me!” he exclaimed, pumped about obnoxious drink number two. “You’ve gotta try this one, Natalia! Don’t let me down!”

Jogging over to the counter, and scaring a few Millennial moms in the process, Bucky snatched up his Trenta Midnight Mocha Mint Frappuccino and winked at the girl behind the counter. She was staring at him like he was...umm, actually he wasn’t sure what her face meant...

“Your name’s ‘Cat Lover’?” she giggled, pushing her black glasses up her perky little nose.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure the love of my life is about to dump me, so cats are the only thing that I’ve got left.” Bucky pulled the long green straw out of its wrapper with his teeth then stuck it slowly into the whipped cream, which, in retrospect, probably wasn’t the right way to impress a girl...wait, why was he trying to impress a girl?

Her cheeks turned bright pink as she said, “I’m really sorry about your girlfriend. She’s an idiot for breaking up with a gorgeous guy like you.”

Gorgeous? Someone who wasn’t Steve was calling him ‘gorgeous’? That was the first time he’d heard those words coming out of a different mouth in a _very_ long time. Maybe when you’re standing next to Captain America ninety-nine percent of the time and hiding under a baseball cap and sunglasses, the compliments tend to flow towards the giant, glowing blond instead of the dark, brooding guy standing behind him. The last non-Steve person to tell Bucky that he was gorgeous? Well, that had been almost seventy-five years ago. Her name? Peggy Carter.

The girl was still giving him a shy smile, and Steve had pretty much told Bucky that he was garbage, so why the hell shouldn’t he make himself feel a little better? Dusting off the charm that he’d used long ago to put on a good show for the ladies at the dance halls, Bucky leaned his hip on the counter. “Well, thank you very much, darlin’.” He gave her a sly grin and whispered, “I like your hair by the way. How’d you get it so blue?”

“James!”

Well shit. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that Natasha had stood up, and the hand placement on her hips suggested that he was in big fucking trouble.

“Oh.” Blue girl slid over so that Bucky was blocking her sight line to angry Natasha. “Is that your girlfriend? She looks really pissed!”

Cracking up, Bucky gave Natasha a little wave. “No, she’s just the best friend a guy could ask for.” He raised his glass and went ahead and gave Little Miss Blue a wink. “Thanks again for the frozen deliciousness.”

Walking back to their table, Bucky still couldn’t believe that he’d just gotten hit on by a cute girl with blue hair and a nose ring! Sure, he’d showered and shaved at ‘Clint’s’ after the Bacon and Egg Incident, and he’d brushed his hair so that it wasn’t its normal rat’s nest...although after the motorcycle ride it probably had some sort of ‘windswept’ vibe...which meant he probably looked halfway decent. And shockingly, the black glove on a ninety degree day hadn’t even scared her away. After all the shit with Steve, it had felt nice, _easy_ . Bucky didn’t mean anything by it; he’d been telling the truth when he’d declared himself a ‘one cat man’. Steve would always be his kitty cat, even if he was puffing up, hissing, and scratching his claws directly into Bucky’s heart at the moment. But right now, standing in the middle of a busy coffee shop, maybe Bucky needed to feel...desired? No, that wasn’t the right word. People who _desired_ Bucky pulled out wrinkled bills from leather wallets. Maybe, for once, it felt good to feel...attractive?

“Were you just flirting with that girl?”

He slid back into his chair and was met by Natasha’s pinched eyebrows. “No! She was flirting with me! I’m allowed to flirt! Steve flirts with people all the time! He smiles, and people wildly start throwing free cookies, free ice cream cones, and complimentary tickets at him. And they always wanna do the selfie thing with him! Guess what I get to do!? I get to hold everyone’s free fucking ice cream while Steve stretches out his big stupid arm and happily snaps the ten-millionth picture of the day, and I...”

“Bucky,” she interrupted.

“What!?” Oh, shit. He’d been squeezing his drink a little too hard and the whipped cream was overflowing like a sugary volcano out the hole in the plastic top.

“You’re allowed to flirt.”

“I am?”

“Yes, it’s good for you. And she’s right you know...you _are_ gorgeous.”

“Since nobody knows your super hearing secret, you just eavesdrop constantly don’t you?

“That’s confidential.” Taking another sip of her coffee, Natasha tapped her fingernails on the wooden table and chuckled. “If your little barista only knew...”

“What? That I’m gay?” Bucky laughed.

“No. That she was hitting on The Winter Soldier.”

Bucky snorted and licked the whipped cream that was dripping down the side of his cup with his tongue. It was so good! Then he took a huge slurp of his brand new Frappuccino and _wow!_  Wow! “Oh my god, holy shit, Natasha, this is so good! You _have_ to try this!” Bucky peeked back at Miss Blue Hair, held up the heaven in his hand, and yelled, “This is fucking delicious!” across the entire Starbucks.

“Bucky!” Natasha scolded, kicking his shin under the table. God, she was such a mom.

“What? Steve doesn’t want me, so why can’t I have a little fun?”

“I kicked you because you just yelled ‘ _fucking_ good’ and there’s a seven-year-old who’s now choking on a piece of lemon cake at the table over there! His mother’s probably going to kick your ass with her Coach purse! As for your stupid assertion that ‘Steve doesn’t want you’, well, I’m not even going to justify that with an answer.” Natasha hit him with the stare that made weaker men tell her anything and everything that she wanted to know...Bucky was not a weak man!

Three...Two...One...

Yes, he was.

As soon as Bucky opened his mouth, he couldn’t stop the words from spilling out all over the table, pouring into their laps, and cascading onto the floor to hang out with the remnants of blueberry scones, banana nut bread, and the empty packets of Raw Sugar.

“...I’ve killed hundreds of people, Natasha, _murdered_ them in cold blood! I’ve almost killed Sam like three times now; that steering wheel move was brutal...in case you’ve forgotten your exciting sled ride down the middle of the I-496 highway...and kicking him off the helicarrier? Jesus! Oh, and I blew up Fury’s car, then shot him three times through a fucking wall. I threw Sharon across the room like a rag doll, tried to kick T’Challa’s ass (totally failed by the way), and blasted Tony in the face at point blank range. I’ve tried to strangle you, shoot you, _actually_ shot you, and, for fuck’s sake, helped them mess with your mind! I’ve tried to kill Steve a bunch of times; seriously, I’ve shot him, stabbed him, broke his face, let him fall from a crumbling helicarrier almost two-hundred feet into the Potomac, threw him down an elevator shaft, tried to cut him into a million pieces with the tail rotor of a helicopter, _and_ pulled his ass into _another_ river while trying to strangle him through the windshield of the same goddamn helicopter, and the thing that Steve’s gonna be mad about is that I let Gaspar Milazzo pimp me out for two dollar blowjobs for six months in 1934?”

Bucky was breathing really hard when he finally finished, and since Natasha’s Iced Café Americano was totally empty, he figured that he’d been blabbering for quite some time. She was leaning back in her chair, legs crossed, pink tennis shoe bouncing slightly, and twirling her ponytail in slow spirals. All she needed was a piece of pink bubble gum to snap obnoxiously and blow big, round bubbles with...fuck, she really was an expert at making men talk. Raising her eyebrows, she said, “Are you finished?”

Was he? He’d never rattled off that list out loud before, and he was pretty sure that he never wanted to again. “I didn’t even mention what I did to Clint, Natalia...I don’t…”

“I’m going to stop you right there. Tony’s an idiot, but he’s actually right this time. You _have_ to let it go. I’m very disappointed in myself that I just quoted ‘Frozen’...you better not tell anyone...I’ll deny it. But that list that you just spewed out at me? It’s done. We all love you for who _you_ are, and _you’ve_ always been a good man, medvezhonok.”

She leaned over and pulled the lid off his Frappuccino, sticking her index finger in the little bit of whipped cream that was left in the bottom, then carefully drew a smiley face on the glass. “Even when The Soldier stood by my side, holding the biggest weapons and setting his sights on nothing but the mission that they’d programmed into his mind, I would still catch him smiling sometimes...Bucky, look at me.” She waited until he raised his head, tapped in the center of her happy face, then whispered, “You have _always_ been a good man.”

When his gloved index finger met her’s in the spot where the nose should go, the uncontrollable vibration made the glass rattle, and Bucky couldn’t speak. He could only watch as the white cream started to run downwards on the clear pane, the smile distorting into something sadder...

Taking his hand, Natasha brought it back down to the table and held it firmly as she said, “Listen, I didn’t bring you here for some sort of relationship pow-wow. You and Steve need to figure this out on your own. But I _will_ say that Steve is dealing with so much right now. We _all_ are. For some reason you’re forgetting that you almost killed yourself less than three weeks ago, and that we all sat watching it happening, unable to do a damn thing to help you. Steve sat for hours and hours in the same chair, in the same position, staring at you _choosing_ to die instead of trying to live for _him_ ...or, for Christ’s sake, Bucky...trying to live for _yourself_. You’re conveniently forgetting that the team brutally killed fifty-four people without hesitation in order to get to you, and that Steve turned into someone else in there. I know that Sam told you pieces of what happened, but I’ve seen the footage from Tony’s suit, and it’s...shocking.

“Since the second Steve stood in the middle of that street in DC, his guard down as you raised your pistol at his chest, I’ve known that Steve loves you with everything that he is. Believe me when I say that I completely understand why. But he became someone else in Odessa, Bucky, and I can’t believe that you’re expecting him to be...honestly, I don’t know what you’re expecting him to be. But whatever you’re asking of him, it’s too much. You need to pull your head out of your ass and realize that Steve isn’t mad about the unsavory things that you did for money when the two of you were kids.”

Bucky dropped his forehead onto the table and bounced it up and down a few times, then added four more to try to get into Steve’s head. Seven. It had always been seven, and Bucky had never asked why.

With absolutely no idea how to respond to Natasha’s completely correct assessment, he went with, “Does Clint know about us?”

She chuckled and let go of his hand. “Us?”

“Does he know about us in The Red Room?”

“ _Us_ in The Red Room!?” Natasha laughed outright. “You thought there was an _us_ in The Red Room?”

“Oh my god, Natalia. Does Clint know that he’s married to a woman old enough to be his grandmother?”

“Who said we were married?”

Bucky stirred the straw around his empty cup, wishing he had another delicious frozen unicorn, because he couldn’t beat Natasha at this game. He couldn’t beat her at chess, checkers, Uno, Poker, or Twister (his legs would never be that flexible), so why he’d suddenly decided that he had enough skill to get Natasha to say anything that she didn’t want to say was just plain stupid. He fought the urge to write Natasha Barton under the smiley face... actually he’d just sucked up the last of the whipped cream, so he couldn’t do it even if he wanted to (which he did).

Moving on. Bucky put his elbows on the table and asked, “Do you remember? Or did the wipe hold all these years?”

That got her to break a little; the chuckle, the glance at her lap, the tiny nod. “I didn’t remember much until I saw you in DC, and even then I wasn’t sure. Before, it was just a strange sense of déjà vu; watching an old movie and feeling like I’d ridden in one of the classic muscle cars before, or going on a mission and knowing the layout of a city that I’d never set foot in. When I saw your face for the first time that day, I got a flash of you pointing a Tokarev pistol in my face, making me disarm you over and over until I could do it fast enough for your satisfaction. But that was the only thing that came back to me. It wasn’t until after the Helicarriers that I spent some time digging overseas, and I found enough information to start breaking through, and, um...it was pretty hard to swallow.

“Then, when Clint and I happened, before Ultron, well, I told him enough. I didn’t know that you’d been involved with the wipe and the implantation of the false memories until you said it on the video feed.”

She paused, and she didn’t have to tell Bucky how she felt about that fun little fact, because Bucky already knew; betrayal. Even if The Soldier had been programmed to hold Natalia down as they’d strapped her into the chair, he’d still been the man who’d kept the night blooming jasmine tucked into the hair above his ear until extraction. Even if The Soldier had been programmed to shove the mouth guard between her teeth, he’d still been the man who’d softly kissed her cheek when she’d made her first head shot from eighteen-hundred yards. Even though the cold and silent Soldier had been programmed to transfer her unconscious body to a bunker hundreds of miles away, he’d still been the man who she’d seen enough softness and warmth inside to nickname him ‘teddy bear’.

Steeling her shoulders, Natasha asked, “How much do _you_ remember?”

“I think most of it now. Since Odessa, more and more has been coming back to me. I remember The Soldier feeling a vague sense of loss every time he smelled flowers in the night air. I remember the first time that you called me ‘medvezhonok’. We were hunkered down somewhere cold, and the extraction team had gotten ambushed, leaving us stranded overnight. The Soldier had refused to rest, keeping watch the entire night, but you were tired and had curled up against him. He tried to jostle you away from him, but you said, ‘I see who you are underneath, medvezhonok, now let me hold onto your soft fur to keep us warm’.”

She didn’t say anything, burying her reaction and staring out the window at the constant crowd of people flooding by, all wearing their own kinds of disguises; buttoned up suits hiding tattoos of skulls and demons, silk blouses and perfect hair hiding addictions to pills, happy teenage smiles hiding feelings of confusion, women walking tiny dogs to make up for skyrocketing careers that were too busy for a child. Everyone was hiding something...

Pushing his hair behind his ears, Bucky sighed. “Clint’s gonna get old, you know, or hurt again, and eventually it’s gonna be just the three of us left...well this Thor guy too, if he ever shows back up. I don’t understand how you do it. Natasha. At least with Steve, I know we’ll have each other, well, maybe not anymore, but…” Bucky scribbled out the remnants of the smiley face with the palm of his gloved hand. “You’re gonna have to bury him, like Steve buried Peggy.”

“Bucky, you almost strangled me to death in Berlin. If it hadn’t been for Tony, you probably would have succeeded, and then Clint would have been the one throwing handfuls of dirt into a six foot hole in the ground. Nothing in this life is a given. _Nothing_. You have to live for today. You, most of all, should understand that.”

Vasily Stoletovto, sneaking a handful of oatmeal cookies in the middle of the night, thinking about the freckled girl that he liked at school, or maybe only concentrating on keeping his footsteps light so the steps wouldn’t creak as he returned to his bed. The Soldier had never given Vasily the opportunity to swallow his last bite or press his weight against the floor again. Kurt Scholz, the German Special Forces officer that Bucky had killed with a cinder block in Bucharest; called to the scene and not having the time to kiss his baby girl goodbye. Feeling the weight of Steve’s shield on James Buchanan Barnes’ arm one second, then nothing but air as he fell a second later. Natasha was right. She always was.

Bucky tugged Steve’s baseball hat back over his hair, backwards this time, and sighed. “I’ve never seen Steve act like this.”

“None of us have. Bucky, I need you to listen to me closely. The man who sat in front of that video screen for two days, watching you dying in slow motion, was just as close to taking his last breath as you were. And, if I understand what’s going on correctly, you’ve just asked him to kill the person who he was before he came out of the ice.”

“I asked him to let go of the past.”

“And without that part of him, what does he have left? You do realize that he’s only been alive in this century for five years? He’s like a thirty-year-old right now, trying to learn how to walk in a new world, and you’re expecting him to be able to run as fast as you. You’ve had more time to figure yourself out.”

“You mean more time hiding out in a tiny flat in Bucharest?”

“I _mean_ , you’ve had time without the whole world watching your every move and expecting you to save the planet every few months.”

Bucky flicked his cup over and groaned. “This has turned into an epic relationship pow-wow.”

“Listen, if you want Steve to accept and love you for who you are now, who you’ve grown to be over the past three years, then you need to do the same thing for him; keeping in mind that he’s had less than two weeks without the safety net of his past to try to figure out who that person is.”

“I’m an asshole.”

Natasha smiled and batted her cup into his so they both rolled off the side of the table. “Yes, but you’re an asshole who’s trying.”

“You’re a way better therapist than Dr. Mayz.”

“Well, I’m not afraid that you’re going to kill me if I say the wrong thing.”

Climbing out of his chair, Bucky extended his hand to help her up and watched her red hair bounce with the motion. “I really like it when you wear your hair in a ponytail.”

“See, Medvezhonok,” she chuckled, standing on her pink tiptoes to kiss his cheek, “Steve’s not the only one who gets nostalgic.”

Maybe there was something about that word that Bucky had completely misunderstood. Maybe it was okay to remember Stevie sometimes, like he’d done when he was dancing with Lucy at the party...Ivory soap and a hint of sweat. Maybe it would be okay to remember how the soap had smelled on Stevie’s skin, or the way the notches in Stevie’s spine had felt pressed against Bucky’s chest when they’d crowded together on the fire escape to listen to the sounds of the city; the cover of darkness protecting them from prying eyes. Maybe Bucky had forgotten the big body that curled up against him in their bed at the compound housed the same foundation as the smaller one from long ago?

Shrugging his shoulders as he headed back towards the cutie with the blue hair, Bucky realized that at least one of his shoulder sockets was the very same one that had belonged to James Buchanan Barnes...

“I think I liked the unicorn one better. I’m gonna get one more.”

Natasha made another convincing mom noise and sighed. “That’s a horrible idea.”

Bucky did it anyway.

  


**Don’t Do It Anyway** **Thursday, July 13, 2017- 5:13 pm**

“That was such a bad idea. Why did you…” Bucky lurched forward again, spewing unicorn colored puke all over the alley next to the motorcycle.

“I _told you_ it was a horrible idea.” Natalia was leaning against the opposite wall with her eyebrows raised. “You should have listened to me.”

“I’m purging unicorn guts and you’re gonna...shit, how can there be more?”

Another round joined the rainbow river that was already running towards the sewer grate. Oh, brown. He’d reached the Midnight Mocha.

“Maybe I should take a picture of this for your nonexistent Instagram? I’m sure Starbucks would love the free promotion.” Natasha’s pink shoes came into view. They matched his puddle.

Bucky wanted to make a witty comeback so fucking bad, but his stomach cramped again, and, yep, he was back to rainbows and unicorns. “Oh my god, this sucks!”

“If I took a picture with the Snapchat filter where the rainbow pukes out of your mouth, people would get really confused.” Natasha chuckled and had the nerve to squat down next to the bike, aiming her phone as Bucky heaved the last of the Unicorn Frappuccino out of his angry stomach. The camera clicked. “Got it!”

Bucky’s muscles started relaxing, the consequences of his bad decision to ingest three giant sugar bombs in quick succession almost coming to a close, as he muttered, “You’re so cold.”

“I was trained by the best.”

The way that Natasha said it was sad, an understanding between the two of them that even though The Soldier had kept her warm at night, he’d still been The Soldier. Even though she’d snuggled up to him in the dark, she’d still been the best Black Widow that The Red Room had ever trained. She put the phone in her back pocket and came around behind him, carefully taking off Bucky’s stolen hat and pulling the loose strands of hair away from his face. Small hands combed through his long hair... that most definitely didn’t smell like Eucalyptus and Sage anymore, considering that it was covered in regurgitated unicorns...then pulled the rubber band out of her own hair to secure Bucky’s into a ponytail.

“I like your hair in a ponytail too,” she whispered before sinking down behind him, her legs bracketing Bucky’s hips as she rubbed his back in soothing circles. Bucky could almost smell the jasmine when she said, “It’s gonna be okay, medvezhonok, just let it all out.”

  


**You Can’t Hide An Asshole With A Baseball Hat                 Thursday, July 13, 2017- 6 pm**

“I can’t be seen here.” Steve stopped short on the sidewalk in front of the double doors, the glow from the giant orange sign illuminating everything that was wrong with this whole scenario.

Sam huffed, turning back and staring at Steve with one hand on the door handle. “You have something against beautiful women?”

“It’s degrading and sexist.”

“Yeah, man, it kinda is, but they have awesome wings, and I haven’t gotten laid in over a year! Do you know whose fault that is?” Sam went right ahead and yanked open the door to Hooters, motioning for Steve to go through ahead of him...which he wasn’t going to do.

“I suppose you’re gonna say it’s my fault.”

“It’s one-hundred percent your fault! _And_ your boy’s fault!” The hinges were groaning as Sam pulled the door open as far as it would go. He was doing the slow shake of his head and the low hum in his throat thing that meant he was mad. Sam was nothing if not predictable. That tactic might work on a normal day, but this was _not_ a normal day. Steve didn’t budge. Not one inch. He was already in enough trouble! “Steve, I swear to our generous and forgiving God above, that if you don’t unstick those shoes from that pavement right this second, I’m gonna lose my temper. And I’m a reasonable man, wouldn’t you agree? I’m cool, calm, good in stressful situations, but woo-eee, right now I am _not_ feeling reasonable. No, sir. If I wanna sit back, enjoy some spicy chicken wings after another _long day_ of dealing with your bullshit, and appreciate some lovely ladies who are just trying to pay their way through college while I do it, then I think you can give that to me, man. You’d _better_ give that to me after today. Just pull your baseball cap down like you always do, nobody’s gonna recognize you.”

Steve rolled his eyes, because this was a mistake and a half. Hooters!? If someone took a picture of ‘Captain America’ with barbecue sauce all over his face in _Hooters_ , the story would take over the news cycle for a week! Dammit. Yanking the hat down as far as it would go, Steve slinked through the door. He was gonna regret this, no matter how good the chicken wings were.

One foot hadn’t even made it across the threshold when Steve was immediately and boisterously greeted by a girl with long wavy brown hair and pretty blue eyes...because the universe hated him. She smiled a big toothy smile...fuck the universe...and stammered, “Wow...wow, hi there, um...wow, sorry, I just never expected to see Captain America in a Hooters! Sorry, I’m just a little taken aback.”

Sam leaned over and whispered, “See, the hat’s working perfectly.”

“Yeah,” Steve deadpanned, “she has absolutely no idea who we are.”

Chuckling, Sam gave her his most cordial smile. “Good evening, miss. Table for three please.”

“Falcon! No way! Wow…”

“Table for _three_?” Steve’s heart jumped, because Sam better not have invited Bucky! He didn’t need goddamn chicken wings flying across a fucking Hooters at his head too! Plus, Steve wasn’t ready to see him! It had been hours, but Steve couldn’t stop running the whole mess over and over in his mind; the lies and the realization that Bucky had not, in fact, been born with a preternatural ability to give the best blow jobs in the world, were making him feel sick. Steve heard himself grunt as he imagined Bucky all snuggled up with twenty fucking kittens in a big basket of lies. Well, Bucky could just stay there, because Steve was...

A hand suddenly clapped the back of Steve’s shoulder, and Clint yelled, “Yeah, buddy. _Three amigos_.”

“Hawkeye! Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!” The hostess started jumping up and down, her boobs having the appropriate reaction in her tiny white tank top. Up, down...Steve should not be here...up, down, jiggle...he should not be within _ten miles_ of here. Closing his eyes, he prayed that she’d stop jumping as she babbled, “Hawkeye, you’re my very favorite Avenger! Oh no, what happened to your arm? You poor thing. Here, c’mon, lemme get you a beer, sweetie.” Wrapping her hand around Clint’s waist, she steered him towards the bar. “Oh, you guys can grab that table over there,” she mumbled as an afterthought, quickly pointing in a general direction that could have meant any number of tables. She up and left Captain America and Falcon standing by the hostess stand like idiots as she took ‘her favorite Avenger’ to get a drink.

“Well, that was new.” Sam headed towards ‘that table’, wherever the hell that was, and Steve regrettably trailed after him.

“Yeah, I’m sure Natasha would love that.”

Sam stopped dead in the middle of the busy restaurant, giving his hat way too much credit, and spun around. “Natasha isn’t a jealous dumbass like someone I know. Now go over there in the corner and sit your ass down!”

“Why the hell is Clint here anyway?” Steve whined as he pushed past Sam. “I’m mad at him.”

“You’re mad at everyone.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve spotted a young guy in a plaid shirt snapping pictures with his phone. Much like the shield, the chair he’d used to smash a row of computers, the fucking cans, the licorice, and the wasted bacon, Steve had an overwhelming urge to rip that phone right out of that asshole’s hands and blast it as hard as he could through the window...to be honest, Steve wanted to throw the guy too. It would be so easy to knock his buddies out of the way like the paper dolls they were, spilling their pitcher of cheap draft beer as Steve lifted the amateur paparazzi high over his head. The feeling of launching the prick through the broken glass would be so satisfying! Steve knew that he could aim the guy’s body so he’d land on the sidewalk in a shower of glass, his fucking plaid shirt glowing in the orange light underneath the giant letters that spelled ‘boobs’.

It was happening more often since the seal had been broken; a horse unleashed with a singular purpose to reign down fire and death upon the Earth, a force unwilling to go quietly back into it’s stable. With each vision, Steve became more and more fearful that the wax had molded him into that which he’d always despised...

Seven breaths to calmly turn to the guy instead, trying desperately to ignore what the wax was screaming for, Steve said, “Hey, man, can I ask you to please stop taking pictures? We’re just trying to relax, and it’s hard knowing that everything we do is gonna end up on the internet in the next five minutes.”

The guy had the decency to look sheepish, but Steve knew damn well he wasn’t going to stop. They never stopped.

Steve somehow made his way to the table Sam had chosen without throwing anybody out the window and sat in the corner with his back to the wall, because Bucky wasn’t here to...dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit!

When Sam pulled out the stool across from him, Steve couldn’t control the look on his face. He knew that his features were twisting, but the curl to his upper lip was overpowering. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t…

Spreading his palms wide, Sam suddenly snapped, “What? You got something you wanna say?”

He had to stop. He had to...

Steve took a moment before responding. “You said that ‘I’m mad at everyone’.” There was a piece of dead skin hanging off his thumbnail, and Steve peeled it back in a long strip until it bled before meeting Sam’s eyes. “I’m not mad at you.”

“Well, isn’t that nice. Thank you very much. But guess what? _I’m_ mad at _you_ , so I’m including myself in the long list of people who you’ve alienated in the past few weeks.”

The long list included everyone. The dismissive shrug of Bucky’s shoulders when he’d said, ‘I can do this all day’ had proved that even Steve’s fiercest ally had scrawled his name at the bottom of the list. There had been something about the way Bucky had said those words that had made Steve feel like he couldn’t...he _couldn’t_ argue with Bucky all day...he didn’t want to argue with him at all!

Watching the hostess pull out the stool next to Sam for Clint, since his one useful arm was occupied by a giant icy mug of foamy beer, the emptiness of the stool on his side became more painful. Bucky had been a ghost for so long, and now that he wasn’t, now that he was corporeal flesh and bone, living and breathing in Steve’s arms, the empty stool felt like Steve was losing him all over again.

“There you go, honey,” the hostess said to Clint... and only Clint. “Amber will be your waitress tonight, and I’ll send her right over. Gosh, it was so great to meet you, Clint! I still can’t believe you said I can call you Clint!” She giggled, and Steve stared longingly at the beer. He was thirsty too. “Anyway, sorry to keep rambling but I just appreciate everything you do!”

“My pleasure, Stacey. It was great to meet you too.”

She squealed and turned on her heel, bouncing away and leaving Steve and Sam beerless. Clint had a huge grin on his face as he raised his mug to his lips, and Steve fought the urge to grab the bottom and dump the whole thing down the front of his shirt. The traitor had hid the fucking rats! And now he was probably hiding Bucky! Steve had risked everything to bust Clint’s ass out of The Raft, and now the guy had the nerve to hide Bucky’s fucking rats!

“Don’t let that shit go to your head.” Sam was side-eying Clint, trying to look tough.

“Whatever.” Clint chuckled before taking another huge sip, pointedly using the back of his hand to wipe the foam off of his chin right in Sam’s face. “Someday you’ll grow up to be someone’s favorite Avenger too.”

“Man, shut up.”

The artery in Steve’s temple was pulsating. He could feel it as he stared across the table at Clint, picturing him laughing with Bucky as they’d plotted against Steve. It didn’t matter that Clint and Sam were laughing, or that they were surrounded by a bunch of dicks aiming smartphones at their table from in between their legs, Steve couldn’t hold it back any longer. “So, Bucky stole rats, and you were his accomplice?”

Clint laughed. He laughed right in Steve’s face, replying, “Dude, I know you’re pissed at me, but are you even _listening_ to yourself right now? You’re acting like Bucky cheated on you with kittens!”

“He _lied_ to me about the fucking rats!”

Sam put his hand over his face and blew out a big breath, while Stacey slid a basket of pretzels in front of Clint. _Just_ Clint.

“Excuse me! Hey, I’d like a beer and pretzels too,” Steve hollered after her and her incredibly inappropriate orange short shorts.

“Huh, oh, yeah, Amber will get you in a sec.” She walked off like he was invisible.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Sam pointed a finger at Steve’s nose and hissed, “You know what, _Cap_ ? You’re _nobody’s_ favorite Avenger right now. You’re acting like a self-centered asshole, your temper is completely out of control, and you can’t see past the green coloring your vision. You have no comprehension that Tony is throwing ridiculous parties in a desperate attempt to make up for the fact that he not only almost killed Bucky, but also that he couldn’t figure out how to rescue him sooner! Do you have any idea how many hours Tony’s been spending in his lab trying to figure out how to fix Bucky’s arm without having to do surgery again?”

Steve didn’t, so he just sat there and stared at Sam as he used more and more hand motions. Clint seemed to be enjoying his pretzels.

“Didn’t think so. Did you thank Clint for taking that bullet and stupidly falling off a building to try to save _your_ soulmate? Hmm? When you were all curled up around Bucky in the hospital, did you walk your selfish ass down to Clint’s room to see how he was doing after _his_ surgery?”

Clint looked like he was enjoying the pretzels slightly less, but he was still eating them.

“How’s my mama doing, Steve? Did you know that this whole situation dredged up memories of what happened to Riley? That _my_ nightmares are back? Every single night since Bucky was taken, I’ve woken up in a cold sweat _by my fucking self_ after taking care of your shit all goddamn day. Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to watch you rescue Bucky, _again_ , when I couldn’t even rescue Riley _once_ ? Do you realize how much I’ve sacrificed in my life to help you get Bucky back? The fact that I have to come to _Hooters_ to get a little female attention, which isn’t even working thanks to Hawkeye over here, should answer the damn question pretty clearly. And if you think that after all that, after I chased The Winter Soldier for two years of _my_ life, traipsing all over the world to find him for _you_ , that I should just sit back and let you fuck up your relationship with Bucky you’ve got another thing coming. I _shouldn’t_ be taking another day out of my life to help you fix yours, but here I am.”

“Sam, I…”

“No. I am not done.”

“Cheers to that.” Clint raised his glass to himself.

“If I knew my girlfriend or wife would react like an immature asshole when I finally got the courage to tell them the truth about something important, I’d probably lie through my teeth too! Is it shitty that Bucky performed some seedy sex acts and didn’t tell you about it? Yes. But I personally think that it’s way worse that when he finally had the guts to admit it, you threw a plate of bacon at his head! And, _Steve_ , it’s complete bullshit that you told everyone about it in the first place! I don’t care if Bucky told Clint that you peed your pants until you were twelve, that you’re bad in bed, or that you eat your own toenail clipping s; you _never_ should have betrayed Bucky’s trust like that! _Ever!_ Clint’s his best friend, and Bucky telling him about the dudes in DC wasn’t that big of a deal!”

Sam stole Clint’s beer and took a huge swig, and Steve sat there...ashamed. There was no other word for it.

When Steve had gone to that bar and had lured those men into the bathroom, it hadn’t been to serve any other purpose than to try to forget; forget that he was alone, that Peggy was old, that he didn’t fit in, that Bucky was dead, to forget that he’d failed in every way possible...he’d even failed at ending it all. God, how could Steve have been so blind? Whatever Bucky had done at Rosie Gold’s, he’d done it selflessly to try to make things better...

Steve bowed his head towards Clint and asked, “Where is he?”

“Unlike you, I don’t betray the confidence of the people I care about.” Clint stared Steve right in the eye, with a look that said ‘I dare you’ as he chomped another pretzel.

“See! This is what I’m talking about! When did _you_ become Bucky’s best friend!? _I’m_ Bucky’s best friend!”

“Oh my god,” Sam groaned. “Man, I realize you were frozen for like, seventy years, and that maybe your maturity was stunted or something, but c’mon.”

Anna, or Angela, or Ashley finally walked up to the table and slowly took in their faces. She looked a little afraid, and Steve didn’t blame her one bit.

“Hi, um, I’m Amber, and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I start you guys...you um, Avengers...I mean, men...would you men like some drinks? Okay. Sorry. I’m gonna just start over. What would you like to drink?”

Sam turned off the anger and gave her a megawatt smile. “How about you bring us three more of whatever Clint has here and a couple orders of the bacon wrapped wings with bleu cheese, and gimme some Three Mile Islands and probably like three or four orders of medium BBQ. I’ve been craving wings for weeks, and I’m starving.”

“Let’s get the Honey Thai Chili Pepper too,” Clint added.

“Oh, okay. No problem.” She smiled at Sam, and he got a little twinkle in his eye. Come to think of it, Steve hadn’t seen that look on Sam since the day that Natasha had pulled up to that curb in DC. “No problem, honey...I mean, Mr. Falcon.”

“ _Honey_ will do just fine.”

When she walked away, it seemed like Sam had made her whole year...the whole exchange was so light and casual...and for some reason that really pissed Steve off. Nobody had asked Steve what kind of chicken wings he wanted! Original BBQ, if anyone fucking cared...

If he had chicken wings, or a fucking beer, Steve would throw them. He couldn’t help it. He was a goddamn horse of the apocalypse or something. But he didn’t have chicken wings, or a fucking beer, so instead he snarled, “Sam, I’m sorry.”

“About what?”

“That you haven’t had sex.”

“That’s it!” Sam kicked his stool backwards and put his guard up, ready for a school yard fight. “You wanna do this middle school shit? Let’s go. Pass me a little note behind the teacher’s back that says ‘Sam, are you my best friend?’ with a little box to check ‘yes’ and a little box to check ‘no’. Hand me that shit right now and I’m checking ‘hell no’. Boom. Just like that. I’m not your best friend anymore. I’m switching sides. I’m no longer Team Cap. I’m officially Team Bucky, and you can go screw yourself.”

“I’ve been Team Bucky since I met the guy.” Clint shrugged his one good shoulder and burped. He’d hit the bottom of his beer, and since his new girlfriend Stacey had slid him another one the alcohol explained his loose lips.

Their waitress finally showed up with their beers, and while Clint kept chugging number two, Steve and Sam had a stare down over beer number one. Sam still standing, both of them chugging, and chugging, neither willing to be the first one to stop.

And there it was.

Steve immediately pulled the mug away from his lips and placed it slowly on the table. Sam and Clint were holding on to one side of a long yellow rope, and Steve was on the opposite side with the heavy rope looped around his waist, digging in low, as they started pulling as hard as they could; eyes narrowing at one another along the vibrating fibers, as both sides held firm. Then Tony’s hands, covered by his gauntlets, wrapped around the rope. When the repulsors powered up, Steve’s boots began to slide forward in the thick mud, but he grounded himself, found a foothold, managing to stop the momentum as he grunted and growled. Then, one by one, more hands began to join the opposing side; Natasha, Scott, Wanda, even hands unseen...Peggy, Dr. Erskine…

_...Whatever happens tomorrow you must promise me one thing. That you will stay as you are. Not a perfect soldier, but a good man..._

It wasn’t Bucky dangling over a pit of thick, rancid mud in the middle of the rope, because his hands, one flesh and one metal, were the last to join the opposite side. Bucky turned his back on Steve, heaving the rope backwards with all of his strength, and there, tied by his wrists in the middle was someone that used to be Steve Rogers being violently ripped in half by whoever the fuck he was now.

“I’ve never had to share him,” Steve said quietly.

“What?” Sam looked completely confused, but he still sat back down on his stool.

“Before, in Brooklyn, it was just us. Even though Bucky had friends and went out with girls sometimes, it always came back to us...he came back to me. I mean, everyone has always loved him, he’s very lovable, but I’ve never felt like he was gonna leave me behind. With The Howlies, yeah, we were all friends, but Bucky never...I don’t know...he was always by my side. But now, he’s…”

“Popular?” Clint interrupted, scoffing.

“Can you please cut me some slack here? I’m trying to figure this out. I’m confused, I feel crazy, and I don’t know how to talk about any of this. I’m not good at talking about stuff. We didn’t exactly have therapy in the forties.”

Enough chicken wings to fill the entire table arrived, but none of them stopped to look at the gaggle of girls in tiny tank tops who’d delivered them. Suddenly it didn’t matter who was hiding their phone under the table or behind their menu to taking damning pictures. Steve didn’t care.

Sam’s voice was calm and sympathetic for the first time since they’d set foot in the door, as he muttered, “You’re afraid Bucky’s gonna leave you behind.”

Steve had always believed that what he and Bucky shared was endless. Maybe he’d been wrong...

“I told you once, Sam, that even when I had nothing, I had Bucky. Maybe Bucky felt the same way about me before? Even when he had nothing, he had me. But Bucky doesn’t have ‘nothing’ anymore, does he?”

“Steve...” Clint started.

“I can’t talk about this any more right now. I can’t.” Steve let his fingers run through the wet rings the frosty mugs of beer had left on the table and poked at the paper hanging over edge of a baskets of wings. Every bit of rage and anger that he’d been feeling had turned into something else… Fear? Shame? The old familiar guilt? Sam and Clint were both staring at him...they both deserved better. “Sam, I’m really sorry that I didn’t ask about your mom. I’ve been a shit friend, and you...Riley...I’m so sorry that it didn’t even cross my mind. You’re absolutely right…” Steve’s voice cracked. Great, he was gonna cry again...in _Hooters_. “And, Clint, I don’t even know what to say. I’m an asshole.”

Clint had somehow gotten barbecue sauce all over his cast already. Shoving another wing into his mouth, he mumbled, “True.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ll wait until you stop being an asshole to accept your apology.”

That made Steve cry even more, because he didn’t know how to stop. He didn’t even know who he was right now! But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Even after Sam had reamed him out for being a self-centered asshole, Steve’s first thought was that ‘he didn’t even know who _he_ was’. He was selfish, a bad friend, and he’d been so mean to Bucky. God, why had he done that to him? Steve ripped a whole handful of paper towels off the roll at the end of the table, burying his face in them and letting it all go in the middle of Hooters; sobbing into a plate of chicken wings in his useless superhero disguise.

  


**Cat Toys Are No Fun With No Cats**                                  **Thursday, July 13, 2017- 9:30 pm**

Sam and Clint had taken the burgundy Tesla back to the compound and had left Steve to go back alone in the automated black Audi that Clint had brought. Even FRIDAY ignored Steve while she remotely navigated the car down the winding roads at _exactly_ the speed limit, which seemed impossibly slow after the exhilarating hundred-and-forty mile per hour dragrace the other night. But Steve wasn’t in a hurry to go back to a most likely empty apartment, or, if Bucky had gone home, he still had no idea what he was going to say to even begin to apologize. The uneasy feeling churning in his stomach reminded him of a dog, crawling low on its haunches through the yard late at night, knowing damn well that it had knocked over the kitchen garbage and had eaten sharp chicken bones and chewed up pieces of aluminum foil; equal parts wanting to hide in the crawl space under the house with the raccoons and wanting nothing more than to climb onto the porch and offer its belly to it’s disappointed owner.

He reclined the seat back as far as it would go, staring out the open sunroof as the power lines, street lights, overhanging branches of the Oak trees, and the nighttime clouds whizzed by in the little rectangle. Steve wasn’t watching where they were going, or where he’d been, he had no control of the picture, and he had no choice but to sit back and let someone else steer. In his peripheral vision a new set of orange lights illuminated the interior of the car, and Steve immediately asked FRIDAY to stop. He had an idea, but he wasn’t sure if it was a good one...

FRIDAY parked the car, and Steve couldn’t make himself move, vacillating somewhere between fear and tentative confidence. He sunk deeper into the seat for over ten minutes in the glow from the Home Depot sign, taking note that this advertising monstrosity also had two giant versions of the letter ‘O’. Boobs vs. Tools. Covert pictures of Captain America sulking around in either locations would probably explode the internet, but ‘boobs’ would definitely be the one that trended. Honking the horn twice, Steve flashed back to Bucky doing the same thing in the garage, and he tried to make himself get out of the fucking car.

“FRIDAY, have any pictures from Hooters surfaced online yet?” Steve pushed the button to raise the seat and the front doors slowly came into view over the sleek dash, sliding open and closed automatically as men with carts loaded with wood, completely unnecessary amounts of screws and nails, and power saws came out eating dollar hot dogs on their way to load their manly treasures into the backs of their pickup trucks. Steve, hiding in an outrageously expensive car felt like he shouldn’t be here any more than Hooters...that maybe nothing in 2017 fit him quite right...that maybe he didn’t belong in this world at all.

FRIDAY didn’t answer Steve’s Hooters question, silently unlocking and opening the car door instead.

The cart that he’d chosen had a bad wheel; the front left bolts rattling violently every time he pushed it forwards down the aisles. The vibration of the metal mocked him. The false whiteness of the rows and rows of fluorescent lights hanging overhead made Steve feel like he didn’t even exist, that _he_ was the ghost that couldn’t be seen against the modern machinery. Bucky would be able to confidently walk down the center of this aisle full of electrical supplies, loading his arms with wires and tools to make things work, while Steve sunk back into the shadows with his rusty screwdriver and a swollen thumb from hitting himself with a hammer for the fifth time. The wheel...the vibration of the metal against the concrete floor...Steve’s skin started crawling...a numbness creeping in...he loved Bucky, god, he loved Bucky...but it hurt...everything hurt so bad.

When Steve finally found the aisle that he’d been looking for, the colors assaulted his senses in every way, and he had to stand there for a very, very long time; lost in a rainbow of colors that didn’t seem to match anything.

Steve was the last person to leave the giant store; the employees stared at him as he checked out, the ‘beep, beep, beep’ of the scanner echoed across the ceiling, the hotdog stand had already been shuttered, and, when the automatic doors closed behind him, Steve stopped, but the doors didn’t reopen. FRIDAY had already pulled the car up, so he stashed his purchases in the tiny trunk and collapsed into the passenger seat, spending the rest of the ride wondering if the contents of his cart could even begin to fix all the damage that he’d caused. Probably not.

Nobody helped Steve carry the pints of paint into the compound, nobody was there to hold open the door to the apartment as he awkwardly balanced them against his chest, and nobody was there to laugh at him when he tripped on the same pair of dirty red underwear that had stubbornly been left in the middle of the carpet. Nobody was there to make fun of him when he dropped every single can of paint onto the living room floor. Nobody was there to hear him scream, “Fuck!” or to take note of the hollow sound when his knees collapsed and thudded on the ground. The apartment was empty, in every way that something can be empty, and, for the first time since Bucky had been kidnapped on that goddamn roof, Steve didn’t want to throw anything.

He didn’t have the strength.

Sinking down completely, Steve’s knees screamed from the way they were folded next to his thighs, but he didn’t move. The carpet needed to be vacuumed, and there were little pieces of Bucky littered all around him. A red and white striped hair band, with three long strands of chocolate brown hair clinging to it, hidden behind the leg of the end table, rogue crumbs in front of the couch from the blueberry muffin that he’d shoved into his mouth before they went to bed last night, his stinky workout shoes kicked off underneath the kitchen bar, shoes left under Bucky’s stool with no feet to fill them, and, when Steve looked close enough, Bucky’s footprints were still visible in the carpet leading towards their bedroom. The pain of emptiness becomes greater when you’re among the remnants of the things you’ve lost.

If Bucky chose to stay away, Steve wondered how long the footprints would last if he was careful not to step on them?

Steve stretched out his hand and grabbed the pint of Marigold Yellow from underneath the edge of the couch, a color perhaps chosen to honor the dead. As he squeezed it in his palm Steve imagined that his hand was just bones; a skeleton on the one night of the year where the bones of the past were welcomed with a million candles. If Bucky forgave him, they should travel to Mexico for The Day of the Dead this year, joining the parades to honor the past. They’d be the only living humans present with the ability to honor themselves.

After he picked up the can, Steve saw one of the cat toys that Tony had thrown in with the rats peeking out from underneath the grey tweed couch; fluffy pink and magenta feathers attached to a long black stick. Pinching the tip of the longest pink feather, Steve slowly pulled it from the place where it had been forgotten, a tiny bell jingling as he flipped it around in his hand. Steve shook it but there was nobody to come and chase it, nobody to jump excitedly into the air as the feathers swooshed back and forth, no rats to be awakened from their rat naps by the ringing of the bell...nobody to hear it at all.

He needed to rethink the therapist, they both did, because Steve had never felt so goddamn confused. Even when his body had changed, and nothing about him had been the same, Steve had still known who he was inside. But right now, shaking a cat toy at nothing but stale air in an empty apartment, he had absolutely no idea.

Hauling the cans into the bedroom, Steve started popping off the lids with a screwdriver and setting the cans and lids haphazardly next to Bucky’s Jackson Pollock wall. They’d added twenty-two new holes together a couple days after Bucky had come home from the hospital, but the rest were made when Steve had been hiding in an alley, trying and failing to build a life based on memories. Even the twenty-two new voids didn’t demonstrate any kind of new connection between the two of them. They were the equivalent of Steve dragging Bucky into his sad corner of licorice mush and showing him how to braid the red ropes from their past as swarms of black ants ran up their arms. The new holes weren’t something that they’d invented together...they weren’t a way to express their shared rage and frustration. No, the wall was something that Bucky had done...that he’d _shown_ Steve. The melting licorice and the knife holes were the same.

Steve scrounged around on his painting cart and pulled out the biggest brushes he owned; the ones with the longest handles topped with simple hog hair bristles. There was nothing fancy about them; the simple wood cracking from the dozens of times that Steve had left them sitting in turpentine overnight. Brushes left to soak, because he’d been too tired to scrub out the pigment after pulling the last curving brushstroke in the middle of the night. The bristles were cut in a straight utilitarian line, built for functionality. Steve grabbed five of them; five brushes for five colors...a rainbow chosen for its purity, its intensity...not diluted by white or darkened by black, no muting the hues by mixing complementary colors that would only remove the essence of who they really were. Marigold Yellow, Dragon Fire Orange, Lizard Green, Exotic Purple, and Blue Ocean. In that empty aisle in Home Depot, Steve had stared for a long time at the paint chips. There had been hundreds of tones of red that he could have chosen: California Poppy, Ruby Ring, Winter Poinsettia, Forbidden Red...but when he’d spotted ‘Licorice Stick’ he’d turned his back on all of them.

Once Steve had opened all the lids, he realized that he’d already made a mess. The Ocean Blue lid had accidentally flipped upside-down on the carpet and the Marigold Yellow had dripped in long ribbons over the rim, but he didn’t really care. It made the boring carpet look better in his opinion. Collapsing onto the floor, surrounded by the open cans, Steve propped his feet up on Bucky’s cratered wall and stuck his big toes into two of the holes. He vowed to leave them stuck in there until Bucky came home... _if_ Bucky came home. It didn’t matter if they fell asleep or fell off. Maybe his dead toes would attract the licorice ants? Steve’s flesh becoming food for the ants as well.

Lying there in his plain blue jeans and his plain blue t-shirt, chosen for their qualities of anonymity, Steve spread his arms wide and dunked his fingers into two of the cans...then he waited...and waited some more...his mind composing the truth.

  
Something grey  
waiting to see if this Bucky would return to him,  
or to learn that this Bucky was truthful about everything.  
Truth in words  
Truth in actions.  
   
Perhaps the person who Steve was without Stevie  
wasn’t someone this Bucky could love.  
Perhaps Steve was as much of a stranger  
as the men who’d paid to touch James Buchanan Barnes?

A new century  
with a new price for kneeling.  
Steve had been paying Bucky to get his knees dirty  
handing him candy to pretend.

Three strands to recreate the boy  
who kissed bloody lips in an alley long gone.  
   
The expectations were the same…  
   
Be who I need you to be.  
Say what I want you to say.  
Do as I ask,  
because I paid you with dollars.  
Kneel,  
because I paid you with red licorice vines.

  


**My** **Ass Is Too Big For All This Truth                              Friday, July 14, 2017- 12:20 am**

It had been well past midnight when Natasha had smoothly accelerated out of the final sweeping curve before they’d reached the compound gates. Bucky had insisted that they blasted right past every single gas station without slowing down because he wanted to leave the tank on E, _and_ he had Natasha park the motorcycle in the wrong direction. Why? Well, that was easy. So there’d be absolutely zero opportunity for Steve to say that Bucky was lying about taking the bike. This act of defiance was straight up ‘Yeah, I stole your bike. What are you gonna do about it? Dump me? You’re gonna do that anyway, so I might as well take your precious motorcycle out for a fucking spin before you kick me out on my ass’ theft, and Bucky wanted Steve to know _all_ about it.

Sure, Natasha had made it very clear in their relationship pow-wow that Bucky was being an idiot and Steve wasn’t gonna break up with him over one fight, but he was still really annoyed...and worried. Honestly, he’d pretty much convinced himself that lying about basically everything constituted justifiable grounds for Steve to declare 2017 as the end of the proverbial fucking line. Bucky was trying really hard (kinda hard) not to be an idiot, but pep talks and logic were Steve’s thing; Bucky ran more on emotion and sugar these days. Maybe if he hadn’t puked up all of the delicious sugar, he’d be in a better mood, but his stomach was empty, his back hurt, his hair smelled, he was tired, and he missed his kittens. Steve should consider himself _lucky_ that Bucky hadn’t disassembled his precious fucking bike and left it in pieces in the pretentious climate controlled garage!

No. That wasn’t true.

Bucky was staring at the closed door to their apartment, the sadness of the day really hitting him for the first time, and realized that he only wanted to undo every bolt on Steve’s motorcycle when he allowed his internal idiot to overtake him. Personality 5.0: The Overly Dramatic Drama Queen. Yeah, Bucky was annoyed, pissed, upset, and mad enough to take the bike apart piece by piece, but he also loved Stupid Steve so damn much that he would immediately put the whole thing back together again.

Why did everything have to be so fucking hard? He pulled the black glove off and held the hand up in front of his face. The plates in the palm were moving on their own now, shifting slightly once or twice an hour and bending the fingers inward. Every time something else moved without Bucky’s permission, the arm felt more and more alien and it made him...god, he didn’t even know if he could admit to himself how that made him feel…

Was Bucky allowed to think that the simplicity of The Soldier was better than the spiraling tornado blasting around inside his head right now? It was politically incorrect and insensitive to himself; he’d have to make a protest sign out of a cardboard box to object to his own offensive opinions, but he could handle that. What he _couldn’t_ handle was remnants of the farm that the tornado had destroyed; jagged pieces of wood whipping through the air with rusty nails sticking out of them, shingles flying by at three-hundred miles per hour, the metal of a stop sign twisting in on itself before it violently wrapped around a fallen Maple Tree, and...oh, _fuck_ , there went a fucking flying cow! It was all too much to take. Bucky was giving himself permission to be as insensitive as he wanted and to fucking put the whole politically incorrect thought right in the middle of the goddamn table. Right now, the relative quiet of The Soldier’s mind would be so much easier to live with than the feeling of Bucky’s frontal lobe getting crushed by eighteen hundred pounds of dead cow. The F5 tornado had formed the instant Steve had walked away, and Bucky was afraid it was going to get even stronger if he walked through the door.

Natasha, of course, had kindly offered Bucky their guest room, where his illegal kittens were hiding from the border guards and the police dog who was probably sticking his nose under the crack of the door to sniff them out. Clint had said that Lucky liked the kittens, but Bucky had his doubts. The offer to spend the night in ‘Natasha’s apartment’ had also been extended. In actuality, her place housed a pilates room, a library with an unfairly comfortable couch and an honest to god hammock, a weapons room, and a locked door that Bucky wasn’t allowed to ask about (sex dungeon), but there _was_ also an actual bedroom with soft cream blankets and a fuzzy white robe hanging from the back of the door. She’d pulled him into a warm hug and said that he was welcome to stay there if Bucky felt like being completely alone with his deep thoughts. Since his deep thoughts felt like the equivalent of eighteen-hundred pounds of dead cow smashing his body like a fucking pancake...what the fuck was it with his brain and fucking pancakes!?...he’d politely kissed her on the cheek and had whispered, ‘No thanks, Natalia, but I love you for offering.’

So here he was, pathetically standing in the hall with his forehead pressed against the door. Someone had hung the test pattern painting back up, and Bucky hated it more than ever. In fact, _fuck that fucking painting!_ Pushing off the door, he stomped over and snatched it off of it’s nail, running down the hall at full speed to impale the ugly thing, with its incessant buzzing, on the tallest spire of the mother fucking Death Star! The canvas split with a satisfying noise, the curved metal puncturing a green stripe and suspending the fucking painting in midair.

Bucky stepped back to admire his handiwork, hissing, “Now _that’s_ what you call modern art!”

So much better. So, so much better! Returning to his sad spot in front of his sad door, Bucky stood there, and stood there, and stood there...afraid to put his palm on the reader for an entirely different reason than a vague note from the unpredictable Tony Stark. It seemed almost cruel that a few days could make such a difference. How the fuck had Bucky gotten so far away from the perfect moment when he’d watched the sweat dripping down the back of Steve’s shoulders in his sinfully sticky tank top, or the rush of sneaking a naughty hand down the silly Hawkeye shorts? What the hell happened to the lightness that came with stupid jokes about butt sweat, dirty kisses with too much tongue, and nibbles meant to tease after an afternoon jumping high into the air like children?

The whiplash of it was hurting Bucky’s neck more than the spasms, which, for the record, had reached a level that one might describe as fucking excruciating. Bucky had thought for sure that he was gonna fall off the back of the motorcycle when Natasha had accelerated over the Tappan Zee Bridge. Every muscle in his back had cramped, his vision had flashed completely white, and the jerk of his body had been so severe that Natasha had felt it over the vibration of the motor. She’d immediately used one hand to grab Bucky’s wrists in a death grip, physically holding him on the bike until she’d cleared the Ramapo river and had slid sideways to a stop on the rocky shoulder of the highway. After Bucky could see again, and he’d stopped swearing and kicking rocks, they’d climbed down and had sat on the river bank, staring up at the structure of the bridge. It was old, but the bones of it had still looked strong. Bucky couldn’t relate. They’d waited there for a long time, watching the cars and trucks crossing the expanse, the minnows that had risen to the surface every time Bucky had spit in the water, and the big snapping turtle that had been sitting on a log just east of their position, not snapping at anything. Bucky couldn’t relate to the turtle either.

When they’d been relatively sure that Bucky wasn’t gonna die or something, they’d left the nature show behind, and Natasha had pushed the motorcycle well past the speed limit for the rest of the ride. She must have figured that if Bucky was gonna seize and fall off the back of the bike, he might as well do it in style. The point was, he was sick of it, and the real kicker was that he'd done it to himself.

Pressing his hand flat against the door, Bucky’s thumb landed on a single piece of red tape that Steve had missed when he’d yanked the note down. Yeah, yeah, yeah, very fucking funny. God, the devil, or whoever fancied himself/herself/itself in charge was the very definition of a prick for orchestrating the synchronicity of this leftover piece of tape! Bullshit of the highest degree. King Bullshit. The Goddess of Bullshit. Captain Bullshit. All of this was such _fucking bullshit!_ Bucky peeled the tape off the door and stuck it to his right wrist, just below his pulse point, and fucking stared at it...because obviously that was exactly what the benevolent God of Bullshit had in mind. The burn wasn’t visible anymore, but the heat of it was still there. Somehow the skin underneath the tape almost felt cooler...soothing...like the goop from Wanda’s weird aloe plant that she smeared all over people whenever they got hurt.

If Bucky knew anything at this particular moment, it was this: he didn’t know anything. Suddenly, feeling the coolness of the tape spreading around his entire wrist, Bucky wasn’t sure about _anything_ that he’d done, thought, or said to Steve since he’d cracked open his eyes in that lab in Wakanda...

The wake up had been confusing to say the least. The thaw after cryo-sleep that The Soldier had endured over and over, no matter who’d owned him, no matter who’d given the order to open the freezer and let out the world’s most dangerous popsicle, no matter if it had been 1956, 1961, 1963, 1973, or 1991, there had _never_ been warm saline pumping into his veins, there had _never_ been dry clothes, blankets, or a simple fucking pillow. The only thing The Soldier had felt when he’d cracked open his eyes had been confusion, pain, disorientation, water...he’d always been so damn wet, cold to the bone...and the agony of the last of the ice crystals dissolving on his internal organs as the serum fought to rebuild the damaged cells. Every single time that Bucky had been un-fucking-frozen it had been fast, brutal, and he’d had no idea what the fuck was going on. But the worst thing, the thing that trumped the pain, was that every single time he’d come out of cryo The Soldier’s disoriented mind had managed to assemble one thought: ‘Please put me back in the tube. Nothing hurts in there. Please…’

When Bucky had opened his eyes in Wakanda, everything had been slow and warm. Calm voices, drugs in his system to make him feel relaxed, like he was floating. The room had been fuzzy around the edges at first, but eventually kind and familiar faces had sharpened with soft halos of light framing their heads; Dr. Ncapayi, nurses, scientists, then Steve.

Steve.

For the first time, Bucky had known exactly who he was when he’d opened his eyes to the comfort of Steve’s hopeful face, but, even in his relief, Bucky’s first thought had been, ‘You should have left me frozen, Stevie.’

“Do you want to build a snowman?” Bucky said to the door, because why not? Why fucking not.

FRIDAY’s voice interrupted Bucky’s pity party with a very concerned, “Sergeant Barnes, you have been in this position for twenty-three minutes. Do you require assistance?”

“What happened with Tony and Ross?”

“General Ross remained at the compound until seven-thirty this evening, when Mr. Stark stormed out of the conference room and departed in his private helicopter. I’m not certain if I’m allowed to divulge the details of their negotiation, but I _can_ tell you that no agreement was met.”

Bucky added the metal hand to the door, staring at it tap tap tapping on the wood with a mind of its own. “No agreement about what?”

“What is to be done about the actions of the Avengers, specifically Captain Rogers, during the unsanctioned rescue operation in Ukraine.” FRIDAY always told Bucky the truth. He could learn a thing or two from her.

“Where’s Ross now?”

“He’s returned to the Pentagon. My information says that he’s scheduled to meet with several high ranking military officials along with a few key members from the United Nations Council at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Not only had Bucky asked Steve to get rid of Stevie, but he was pretty sure that The Accords were gonna make him get rid of Captain America too. Not that Steve was a fan of the shield at the moment, the fact that it was shoved in the corner of the storage room had made that clear, but the choice should be Steve’s…in _both_ cases. Bucky was starting to understand that now...

“FRIDAY, does anyone else know about this?”

“No, the rest of the team were otherwise occupied when Mr. Stark departed.”

Yeah, occupied with another fun and exciting Steve and Bucky clusterfuck. Every single one of FRIDAY’s answers made Bucky feel even worse. He might as well go ahead and ask the big questions, whose answers were guaranteed to be the most uplifting. “Was Tony okay?”

FRIDAY was quick to answer, almost like she’d been hoping that someone would come along who cared enough to ask. “Mr. Stark’s heart rate and blood pressure both exceeded normal levels, and he took several bottles of alcohol on board with him. He has turned off my open line of communication and has forbidden me from disclosing his location.”

Of course he had. Bucky pressed his forehead harder, feeling the reverberation from the pressure through the core of the wood, and hearing the creak of the hinges mingling with the sound from the compression of his bones.

There was this perception that people had of Bucky Barnes. It had been there from the very beginning when Bucky’d been a kid cleaning up after scrappy Steve Rogers’ latest fight, or even before that, when Bucky, at eight years old, had carried a dog that he’d found bleeding in the road over a mile to Dr. Leonard’s clinic to try and save its life. The perception had grown when he’d jumped in to help his mother nurse Becca back to health when she’d caught influenza as a toddler. Bucky had sat up through the long nights, cradling his baby sister in his arms so his mother could rest. He’d earned a reputation for being strong, resilient, brave...but, really, he’d always been afraid; his bravery motivated by fear. Afraid of watching the life draining out of the dog’s warm brown eyes before he’d made it to the vet, afraid of letting his mother down and feeling the same disappointment that she’d directed at Bucky’s father before he’d walked out the door, afraid that Steve would see what he really was...afraid that he’d see the truth. The only reason that Bucky had punched Gino Pugliesi in the stomach after Steve had called him out for cheating during a game of ‘I Declare War’ was because Bucky was scared that Steve was gonna get himself hurt... _not_ because Gino had purposely blasted Eddie Dolan in the head with the ball. That fear had never gone away, it had only morphed into something bigger; Bucky was letting everyone down, he was a burden, he was a fucking _distraction_.

Tony Stark...now that was a man who was strong, resilient, and brave; even if he was ‘drunk flying’ all over upstate New York, dive bombing herds of sleeping sheep with his helicopter while drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. Bucky knew damn well that even wasted, angry, frustrated, and set on frightening innocent farm animals, Tony would still be racking his brain for ways to solve all of these fucking problems. Pepper leaving again was the proof of that. She’d needed Tony to put his problems first (all million of them), to put _her_ needs first, but there were always ‘bigger’ problems to solve, and Tony wasn’t capable of leaving the pieces scattered on the table.  

“FRIDAY, where’s Steve?”

“Currently, he’s sleeping on the floor in your quarters.” She said it casually, like a solo slumber party was a totally normal thing. “He’s been in REM for approximately thirty-five minutes.”

“On the floor?”

“If you would like additional information, Sergeant Barnes, you will need to enter the premises yourself.”

To find what? That Steve had put all of Bucky’s shit in a bag and left it next to the door? That the effort of collecting all thirty of Bucky’s worldly possessions had tuckered the poor thing out, and he’d needed to take a little nappy in the middle of the living room? Filling hefty bags with comic books, lube, novelty t-shirts, and weapons had to be exhausting. Wonder how many times Steve had to double bag the knives and guns. Two? He’d probably started with two, but even Hefty couldn’t stand up to the pointed metal of a Skorpion submachine gun. Maybe he’d had to upgrade to three garbage bags? Four? How insensitive to the environment!

Would Bucky find Steve dozing in between the couch and the coffee table? Had he put the table back in perfect position parallel to the couch with Martha Stewart fanned out in a perfect row, her smiling face beconning Steve with promises of tart key lime pie and the perfect light meringue? Had Steve made everything look perfect and precise on the surface; eagerly waiting for Bucky to crawl back with his tail between his legs to give a big speech about truth, George Washington’s cherry tree, and to explain with conviction that President Clinton declaring, ‘I did not have sexual relations with that woman’ was just a fancy way of saying ‘she only sucked my cock’?

Or maybe Natasha had been right about much more than the dangers of Frappuccino overload, and Steve was just as fucked up as Bucky was...or worse. Bucky might open the door and discover a very bloated Steve, surrounded by three empty gallons of Moose Tracks ice cream, a pile of empty bags of Ruffles Sour Cream and Onion Chips and Cool Ranch Doritos, with twelve empty bottles of beer strewn all around him, wearing Bucky’s Nine Inch Nails hoodie and snoring with his jeans unbuttoned...his pubes hanging out because Steve _just couldn’t deal._

Bucky was afraid to open the door to discover any of those scenarios, because regardless of what he was gonna find, it all came down to one thing...he loved Steve. Bottom line: scrappy, annoying, stupid, sad, depressed, angry, even vicious...Bucky fucking loved him. Probably too much. Did he love Steve too fucking much? Was that the reckless emotion that kept leading them to all this destruction? Bucky dug the metal fingers into the center of the door and there was no scream to accompany the motion, no gnashing of teeth, just the increasing pressure of fingers that needed to come off again. When the wood threatened to buckle inward, Bucky told the hand to stop. Four digits stopped in an instant, but the pinky...well, the fucking pinky did whatever the hell it wanted...much like Bucky’s stupid heart.

“FRIDAY, I’m afraid of losing him.”

 

 

> _“Buck,” Steve rasped, “where’d you get the money to pay for this medicine? I know you don’t got that kind of cash hidin’ under your ratty mattress.” His cough was thick, heavy, and frighteningly happening less often; the weight of it accumulating in his chest._
> 
> _Bucky pulled the blanket up under Steve’s chin then glanced out the window. It was raining. April showers and all that, but the dampness made Steve’s breathing worse, and it looked flat out like he wasn’t gonna pull through this time. “You’ve got more important things to worry about, don’t ya think? Stop bein’ so nosy.”_
> 
> _“I’m not nosy, Buck, jesus, I just want to know where…”_
> 
> _A brutal cough lurched out of Steve, hard enough that he folded in on himself. Bucky had to wipe the thick green that had spewed onto the pillow off with his handkerchief._
> 
> _Steve didn’t finish his question, instead burying his face in the pillow and mumbling, “I don’t know why you put up with all this, Buck.”_
> 
> _Bucky waited until Steve dozed off to lean over and place a single kiss on the top of his sweaty blond mop, whispering, “Because I love you.”_

 

“I believe that Captain Rogers is afraid of losing you as well.” FRIDAY had somehow dropped her tone, her Irish lilt sounding like a sad song as it filled the empty hallway.

“FRIDAY, do you have aspirations to be a therapist too?”

She ignored him completely and the lock clicked open without Bucky touching the panel. The forward pressure of his head made the door fall wide open, and Bucky fell right with it.

Fucking comediennes everywhere.

Assessment: Living room. Coffee table still upended next to couch, Martha Stewart still strewn everywhere, red underwear still present (position altered slightly). Single environmental alteration: pink cat toy lying in center of hallway, position parallel to walls. Purpose: unknown.

Bucky followed the completely baffling cat toy compass and found Steve in the bedroom, inexplicably sprawled out on his back with drool running out of the side of his mouth and creeping down over the stubble that was well past five o’clock shadow. He was surrounded by paint cans, and his fingers were covered in orange, green and yellow paint. Not only that, but there were thick smears of color all over Steve’s shirt, jeans, the carpet, and seriously, what the fuck!?

Hefty bags? Negative. High and Mighty speech? Negative. Flying food? Negative. Bloated beer belly with Dorito crumbs in his belly button? Negative.

The weird-ass love of Bucky’s life lying spread eagle like a finger paint murder victim? Affirmative. Bucky was tempted to dip his finger in the purple and draw a chalk outline.

After the stress of the horrible day...no, horrible week, _weeks_...Bucky couldn’t help it; he started laughing, doubling over far enough to make the spot under his ribcage twinge. Steve was the embodiment of Unicorn barf! Pink, blue and brown puke running into a sewer...orange, green, and yellow paint running all over their goddamn carpet. Without glancing at his right wrist, Bucky suddenly became aware of the red tape that he’d stuck there. He’d forgotten about it. God, he was a fucking idiot, and so was the dipshit on the floor.

 

> _...because I love you..._

Steve’s eyes snapped open but he didn’t move. Instead, he mumbled, “I think we should paint this wall together.”

Well, that was unexpected.

Reaching up to wipe off the gross spit trail, Steve managed to add more paint to his face and miss half the drool. Bucky snorted and went back to his original thought; what the fuck!? It took him a couple minutes to compose himself enough to say, “Most people would go with a neutral beige, Steve. That looks like unicorn barf, and I know from personal experience _exactly_ what that looks like. There’s probably some in my hair if you wanna check it out.”

Steve shut his eyes again and dragged his fingers across the carpet. Most of the paint was dry, but he was still creating faint lines of color following the shape of his body. Bucky almost missed it when Steve quietly spoke, the Brooklyn accent peeking out like he was tired. “Can you please trust me for a minute, Bucky? I know I don’t deserve it right now, but I’m askin’ you to please give me another chance.”

What? To give _him_ another chance? Bucky was still on the look out for the Hefty bags, so seriously, what the hell? But something in the way that Steve had said it made Bucky keep his mouth shut and remember how Clint had rolled his wheelchair around in circles at the hospital, spouting sage advice with the crooked dick Bucky’d drawn on his cast proudly on display…

 

 

> _“And if I may humbly make a suggestion; let Steve help you when you start to fall. He may be a big sappy puppy, but he’s strong enough to catch your delinquent ass once in awhile. Steve needs you to trust him enough to make the catch.”_
> 
> _“He shouldn't have to.”_
> 
> _“Bucky, please stop being so dense. That's what partners are supposed to do!”_

 

Steve did not, by any means, look ready to catch anything; not a baseball, not a shield, not a veiny red dildo, and definitely not puke scented Bucky, but Clint had said ‘trust him to make the catch’...there’d also been something in there about Steve giving Bucky’s balls a sponge bath...or Bucky’s brain a sponge bath...even though balls made more sense...regardless, Steve was reaching out his hands in the weirdest way possible, but still reaching.

Okay. Bucky was gonna do it. Trust fall time. He pulled his henley over his head, toed off his boots, then unbuckled his belt and let his jeans drop to the floor. _Obviously_ he wasn’t wearing underwear, but Clint’s advice probably didn’t include a dick flopping naked catch, so Bucky grabbed a pair of the sexy underwear he’d ordered for Steve out of the top drawer and yanked them on. They were navy blue, which looked awesome against Bucky’s tan skin, but since he had a little more junk in the trunk than Tiny Ass Steve, they were more than a little snug. Awesome or lewd? Maybe both?

Stepping through the maze of paint cans, brushes, and lids, Bucky assumed the trust fall position over top of Steve (well, he was facing the wrong direction, but whatever). The dumbass had closed his eyes again and had sadly missed the entire show. His loss. Bucky lined his bare feet up with Steve’s hips, crossed his arms, and tightened all of his muscles. “Now what, dipshit?”

When he peeked, Steve looked like he was gonna cry and laugh at the same time. Laughter won out as he snickered, “Your dick is gonna fall out the bottom of those.”

“Is that gonna be a problem?”

“Um, well...no?”

“Great.” Bucky widened his stance a little more, the head of his dick, in fact, sliding out a tiny bit at the bottom, and puffed out his chest even more. “Then make the catch.”

Steve crossed over the ‘about to cry’ line, and stepped firmly into The Land of Confusion. “What?”

“It’s an analogy.”

“Catching your dick is an analogy?” Steve’s eyebrows looked so cute when he got all flustered. “For what?”

“Trust.” Bucky smiled. The anger inside that had wanted to unscrew every bolt on Steve’s motorcycle, impale his face with crisp bacon, and binge on sugar was fading, his emotions transforming into something else entirely. “Clint told me that I need to trust you to make the catch. So let’s go. You’re up.”

“Am I supposed to put the head of your cock back in the underwear, or are you going to belly flop on me?” Steve pushed up to his elbows and hesitantly peeked up through his eyelashes.

“Not unless those are the first steps to painting a wall.”

“Well, I always thought that the first step was primer.” Steve chuckled a little, a hint of sunshine peeking through the April clouds. “But according to you, the first step is getting mostly naked and posing like you’re on the cover of Men’s Health: Porno Edition.”

Bucky spread his arms wide and locked his muscles in plank position. “Well, if we aren’t painting then I’m doing the belly flop.” Escaping cock be damned, Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and started to fall...

 

 

> _The shield wobbled when Bucky grabbed it off the rumbling floor of the train car, and, as Bucky tried to widen his stance and aim his pistol, he didn’t feel solid. Not like it mattered. In an instant he was flipping end over end; the whiteness of the snow covered mountains, the silver of the bent steel, the grey of the sky flashing in rapid succession. Somehow, Bucky’s hand was no longer gripping the shield, instead it was grasping desperately to a piece of something that he had no idea how he’d caught. It was all wrong. Maybe this was how Stevie had felt all those times when the mucus in his lungs had thickened and stagnated, staring up at Bucky from under a pile of ratty blankets, convinced that the next shallow breath would be his last?_
> 
> _This is how I die..._
> 
> _When Steve leaned out the hole, Bucky let himself believe for a fraction of a second that Steve could reach him; that they were going to make it out of another impossible situation alive and together. But the second he saw Steve’s eyes, Bucky knew. While Bucky had always been able to smile at Steve and convincingly lie, telling him that everything was gonna be okay, Steve had never possessed that ability. With the wind whipping against Bucky’s cheeks and the muscles in his arm screaming from the pressure, Steve’s eyes told the truth._
> 
> _This was how Bucky was going to die..._
> 
> _The metal gave way, slipping out from between the fingers of Bucky’s left hand, his body lurching backwards as Stevie screamed his name..._     

 

Two firm hands caught Bucky’s waist; solid, certain, gravity having no impact on Bucky’s body. He froze there in some sort of weird ‘Dirty Dancing’ plank, relishing how it felt to be caught and not giving a shit how stupid he looked or that his right nut was making an appearance too, before finally opening his eyes. This time Steve really was crying, and, oh yeah, Bucky was getting weepy too. They were both liars, heros...and now, like it or not, ‘crybabies’ had officially been added to the list.

Bucky started laughing, his big crocodile tears splattering all over the place as Steve slowly lowered Bucky down on top of him, like he was bench pressing two-fifty at the gym. He almost wished that Steve would press him up and down for one more rep, simply because that would be fucking hilarious, but the feeling of Steve’s stubble against Bucky’s cheek was a welcome alternative to a gym rat joke. They were chest to chest, Bucky’s thighs falling on either side, and Steve reached up to touch Bucky’s hair.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. I wasn’t kidding about the puke. I threw up three Frappuccinos and it totally got in my hair.”

“Eww.” Steve groaned, but his hands kept moving. “Are you feeling okay now?”

“Yeah, I fully purged the Starbuck’s Death Drinks. FYI, if you’re gonna stress eat, do not, under any circumstance, give in to the siren call of the unicorn.”

Steve kissed his forehead before gently setting Bucky off to the side, and yes, adjusting the underwear for him. Dick containment complete, Steve quietly said, “Can I tell you a story?”

The instant fear that Steve was gonna bring up Rosie Gold’s made Bucky’s stomach turn, but Clint had said to trust him. Trust. Trust him. Okay. Even if Steve was planning on weaving a depressing fairy tale about a whole village of degenerate teenagers sucking dick for a living to make Bucky feel even worse, Bucky was at least gonna hear him out (it _better not_ be a dick sucking fairy tale...just sayin’). It took a lot of effort, but he managed a somewhat confident, “Okay.”

Rolling to his side, Steve carefully grabbed hold of a paintbrush that had gotten stuck under Bucky’s rib cage and pulled. Even though Bucky was lying on his right side, he still felt the sharpness of Sergei yanking out the knife when the brush moved and he winced involuntarily. Bucky’s eyes snapped up to Steve’s, waiting for his reaction, but Bucky didn’t have to say a word. He could tell that Steve already understood, and he didn’t run this time.

Pressing the bristles against the scar, Steve murmured, “You still feel it.”

“I feel it more now than when the hilt was actually sticking out of my body.”

That was the honest to god truth. Steve lying next to him made what Bucky had done to himself even more painful. The bristles moved outwards, spiraling lightly across his skin as Steve swallowed.

“Bucky, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m floundering here, and it feels like I’m missing your hand every single time. But I...I don’t really care about Rosie Gold’s.”

“Well, I still care about the guys in the bar.”

“Bucky! I swear to god…”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” Bucky ruffled Steve’s hair and said, “I think we’ve both figured out that none of this is about our whorish ways.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but he was trying not to smile. Bucky felt a little freaked out by what he was about to say, hoping it was the right move, that he wouldn’t regret it, that he could be honest enough to admit it if he did… Taking a deep breath, he said, “I think I’m figuring out that it’s okay to remember.”

“Is that why you have red tape stuck to your wrist?”

The little piece of tape was indeed still hanging on, lifted slightly and clinging to the curly arm hairs. “I don’t know. I have no clue what I’m doing either.”

Steve looked like he was thinking really hard as he flicked the brush just enough to tickle Bucky’s nipple before he adjusted the arm underneath his head. “There’s an artist named Chuck Close who rose to fame in the seventies. He became known for his oversized photorealistic portraits. I’m not talking three feet tall, or even four, no, his canvases were _nine feet tall_ , and, even standing six inches in front of them, you can’t tell that they’re paintings. I saw two at the Smithsonian Art Museum, and I swear, Buck, every strand of hair, every eyelash, wrinkle, the texture of the skin, all of it was perfectly replicated with oils and a paintbrush. They’re so real that they’re _unreal_ , if that makes any sense.”

Propping up his head, Steve gazed at Bucky more intensely, like this was the most important story that he’d ever told. And Bucky was locked in...and not just because this story had nothing to do with blow jobs. Sometimes Steve’s art stuff went over his head, but that was mostly because Bucky’s non-Soldier attention span was on par with a spastic chipmunk these days. But not this time. The way that Steve was looking at him was making Bucky hang on every syllable.

“Then, in 1988,” Steve continued, “he had a severe seizure that was caused by a spinal artery collapse, and it left him paralyzed from the neck down. But Chuck Close didn’t give up, even when everything told him that he should. After therapy and hard work he regained some slight movement in his arms. He couldn’t make what he’d created before, his hands could no longer bring people to life like they’d done in the past, but he was still a painter inside; he just had to find a new way to paint. His solution? He had people tape the brushes to his wrist! Most people would have painted on a smaller scale, but Close asked his assistants to rotate the giant canvases so he could reach all the parts. He didn’t stop, Bucky. He didn’t give up. And when you look at one of his paintings now, your face six inches from the brightly colored canvas, it looks like hundreds of messy circles; the simplest of shapes that look like something a kindergartener could do. But when you step back, the image is revealed; portraits created in a completely different way that are even more beautiful and authentic than his original work. The faces emerging from the pixelated circles reveal the truth of the subjects as well as the truth about the artist. These paintings became his legacy, are considered some of his best work, because Chuck Close reimagined what a portrait could be. He’s _still_ innovating today, changing, but always holding on to what he started with...the humanity of the portrait.”

Bucky let his metal thumb catch the belt loop on Steve’s jeans, wondering if he really understood what Steve meant. He thought he did, and god, he hoped that he was right. “So you want to paint something new?”

“I’ve been trying to use the smallest brushes to recreate you in oil for so long, that when you asked me to put them away I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t. But I do know one thing for sure. Everything that’s happened has made it pretty damn clear that we need to try something different. I need to change, adapt, and figure out how to paint again, and I need your help so the finished work of art is part of both of us. I want to paint this wall _together_.”

Bucky tried to imagine his face painted on a nine-foot-tall canvas, had a brief panic attack about the painting that he’d destroyed in the hallway, pushed his wayward dick back into the underwear _again_ , then let what Steve was saying really sink in. “Your analogy is way more complicated than Clint’s.”

Steve kissed Bucky’s wrist and the stubborn little piece of tape. “It means that we need to take something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, and become something different together.”

“Okay, weirdo, I know what it means, it was just a lot of words. Also, you just said a very weird wedding thing to me, which happens to be far more confusing than your very fitting art analogy. Now I’m lying here wondering if you have a secret wedding board on Pinterest.”

“What’s Pinterest?”

Bucky choked and quickly answered, “I have no idea.”

“Now who’s the weirdo?” Steve flopped away and jumped to his feet, abandoning his finger paint outline and stripping off his shirt. The belt followed, allowing his jeans to fall to the perfectly scrumptious position where the only thing holding them up was Steve’s cock. Jesus, Bucky loved it when Steve did that...which, of course, Steve knew and was shamelessly exploiting. “I don’t know why I said the weird wedding thing. I think I read it in one of my magazines.”

“Sure ya did. I’m gonna just pretend that you didn’t say any of that sappy shit, although I do love it when you wear blue...” Bucky took a deep breath before he finished the sentence, because it was a doozy. A big, enormous, ‘I hope I know what the hell I’m doing’ _doozy._ “It brings out your eyes, _Stevie._ ”

That word.

That word had never been a lie. _Never._ Even when Bucky had struggled with it, the truth behind those two syllables had never gone away.

Steve picked up the can of blue paint, swallowing way too much and breathing way too fast. It took him a minute to build up the courage to say whatever he was gonna say, and as Bucky waited, he still had that lingering feeling that maybe Steve didn’t _want_ to be his Stevie anymore…

“Did you mean to say that?”

Bucky nodded, waiting…

Scooping two brushes off the carpet, he tossed one at Bucky, then dunked the other into the rich blue paint. “Well, then let’s start.” Before Bucky knew what was happening, Steve had run the blue bristles up the length on his arm from the red tape to the peak of his bicep. Bucky couldn’t help but laugh because he had no idea what the fuck Steve was doing, and it was kinda awesome! Steve put the finishing touch on the top of his shoulder by ending the line in a spiral, then leaned back to admire his handiwork. “We’re both old, this paint is new, you ‘borrowed’ my motorcycle, and now you’re blue.”

“That’s not what Martha Stewart meant. Not even _one_ of those count.”

“I know. I just wanted to paint your arm blue.” Steve shrugged, and his eyes twinkled. God, Bucky had missed that so much. He’d _missed_ it!

“For your information, Steve. I _stole_ your motorcycle.”

“You returned it, which means you _borrowed_ it.”

“Hey, who told you about that anyway?”

Steve just gave Bucky his little-shit smile and changed the subject. “I was thinking that we could say something that’s true, then paint around a few of these knife holes. But no fighting this time...let’s try some fun stuff. I have faith that the two of us can be lighthearted if we _really, really, really_ try.”

Bucky dunked his brush in the orange, holding it up in the air so the paint dripped down the handle and onto his hand. “Okay, but I wanna get to the Dares eventually. I have ideas.”

“I’m sorry I threw bacon at your head,” Steve blurted out, scrunching up his face.

“Technically, I threw the bacon first,” Bucky snickered. “And I’m sorry I threw bacon at your head too.”

The power of a simple apology. It was something that Bucky needed to remember and try to do more often. And Steve, turning those gorgeous blue eyes in Bucky’s direction and genuinely saying he was sorry for throwing bacon, well, that made Bucky think about creepy Martha Stewart and the millions of overly sentimental saps pinning Yves Saint Laurent tuxedos, lemon blueberry marble cakes with buttercream frosting, and boutonnieres made with blue hydrangeas, rose hips, and dahlia buds tied off with blue silk ribbons to digital cork boards. Bucky should probably stop...

If, for some insane and completely unrealistic reason, he and Steve _did_ have an occasion where they might, _hypothetically_ , need something old, it would have to be the locket that Sharon Carter had secretly placed in Bucky’s palm a couple months ago. The last time she’d been at the compound had been at the end of April and she’d pulled Bucky aside after the briefing. Considering that he’d had several very negative interactions with her, Bucky had to admit that he’d been concerned when she’d ushered him into an office and had shut the door behind them. But Sharon hadn’t scolded, yelled, given Bucky a shovel talk, or tried to throw _him_ into a table. No, her intentions had been much more moving.

Peggy had wanted the locket to go to Steve after she’d passed. In her last days, Peggy had told Sharon that she still had hope that Steve would have a family some day. Bucky knew that it was hard for Sharon to lower the chain into his hand while shakily explaining that the locket was meant for a future daughter, or even a granddaughter. It must have been so hard to entrust him with something so precious after everything that had happened. But Sharon _had_ trusted him, confiding in Bucky that she didn’t believe that Steve was ready for Peggy’s gift...that it might be too much. Sharon was wise, just like Peggy...

Before she’d gone, Sharon had stood on her tiptoes to kiss Bucky’s cheek and had whispered, “Before she died, Aunt Peggy whispered in my ear that she’d loved you too, and I will always trust her judgement.”

Bucky’d had to stay in that room by himself for a long time, deciding if remembering Peggy had been something that he’d wanted to do. He hadn’t made a decision that day, compartmentalizing Peggy somewhere in his brain just slightly out of view, but Bucky had tucked her locket in between the pages of the first journal that he’d written in after DC...

             

 

> _Page 38.  Date unknown. Setting unknown. A woman. Dark hair. Dark like Sergeant Barnes. Laugh sounds odd.Foreign? English? English. Soft lips. She had soft lips. Red. Red smeared onto the Captain’s lips. The Captain’s lips..._

 

It was safe there, hidden in the spine of page thirty-eight, unopened, waiting… _hypothetically_.

And when pigs flew, or hell froze over, or they killed off Daryl, and Bucky _might_ find himself in need of something new...well, that was already tucked carefully into the little silver box hiding predictably in his sock drawer next to Bucky’s big ass gun. Somehow, Steve holding onto a paintbrush dripping with blue, gave the little silver box more weight.

Not that Bucky was really familiar with tradition or anything, but if there had been, _possibly_ some discussion that he and Steve _maybe_ , _perhaps_ , _might_ be needing to come up with something borrowed, Bucky just _might_ have already _hypothetically_ lined up something from Clint. Two days out of the hospital, Clint had tagged along when Bucky had picked out the little thing to put in the little silver box, and they _might_ have had a discussion about borrowing something when.. _.if_... the time came.

Clint and Bucky had co-piloted the helicopter, with two good hands between them, on a covert mission to Midtown to pick up a little something from Harry Winston...not that Bucky or Clint would ever admit to that illegal field trip. On the flight back, Clint kept grinning at Bucky like an idiot across the cockpit until he’d practically burst with excitement and had made an offer that Bucky _hypothetically_ couldn’t refuse. Two pair of cufflinks from Clint’s personal collection.

After they’d gotten back to the compound with the little silver box, Clint had invited Bucky into his walk-in closet and had carefully slid out a drawer to reveal several neat rows of cufflinks sitting on top of a grey silk cloth. There were twenty-seven pairs, each unique and special. He’d told Bucky that Natasha brought him a pair home after every solo mission. He never wore any of them...but their purpose wasn’t to hold fabric together at a fancy dinner party. No. Every time Natasha that returned home with her own little box, it was to remind Clint of the day that he’d worn a simple pair of platinum cufflinks with a beautiful black morning jacket in a honest to god church. Bucky was pretty sure that he was the only person who knew about that day. _Hypothetically._

The last item that needed to be added to the _nonexistent_ list that Bucky had _absolutely_ zero idea about was something blue...something besides that one particular pair of eyes that drove him crazy. Blue shoes? Too Elvis. Blue flowers? Too perfect. Blue socks? Too trendy. Bucky re-tucked his rogue _love rocket_ ...god, the choices were never ending...back into Steve’s tiny briefs and landed on blue underwear. Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Bucky would make his _twig and berries_ tough it out in captivity for one special occasion if he and Steve ever _considered_ doing... _the thing_.

Steve was staring at him, and Bucky stopped thinking about... _all of it_ … and he was gonna make Natalia take down that _hypothetical_ Pinterest board first thing tomorrow morning! Jesus.

“We gonna do this, or what?” Bucky was moving the fuck on from hypotheticals and snatched the paintbrush out of Steve’s hand, dunking it in to load it up with even more blue. Holding the orange brush in the metal hand and the blue in his right, Bucky was double fisting like a pro. He didn’t give a flying fuck that a river of orange was running into the third joint in the palm or that it was the same joint that Tony had finally gotten fixed after the Mac and Cheese fire. It didn’t matter. Bucky wasn’t gonna ask Tony to fix the thing anymore...

Steve laughed and grabbed a new brush, scooping up a huge amount of yellow. “Okay, Truth. What’s your favorite color?”

“I always say it’s black, but I really love blue.” Bucky stepped up to the wall and side-eyed Steve. If he only knew the crazy shit that was still _maybe_ floating around in Bucky’s overly sentimental sappy brain right now.   

Yellow paint dripped all over the carpet when Steve moved his brush to one of the holes. “Just move it in a circle like this.” He quickly went around the first knife hole then stepped back with a smile that was even brighter than the yellow he’d messily painted onto Bucky’s Wall of Violence and Rage.

“Okay, that seems easy enough. Truth. What do you draw in the notebook that you hide under the mattress?” Bucky pulled his orange line around an especially nasty hole at eye level, then painted two more blue ones in front of Steve. A fourth landed around Steve’s bellybutton.

“You didn’t just paint me!” Steve had the nerve to look shocked when he’d been the one who’d just painted Bucky’s entire arm! The blue stripe had already smeared all over his side and Ancestry.com would probably declare Bucky three quarters Smurf at this point!

“You’ve already done a pretty good job of painting yourself, Stevie. Your hair’s looking spectacular, very punk rock. Oh, plus the carpet, and you’ve forgotten me.” Bucky took a step backwards and spread out his arms so Steve could fully appreciate his handiwork. “Anyway, I think that my blue circle makes your belly button look even sexier than usual.”

“I’m back to being sexy again? Not a ‘Big Mouthed Cunt’?”

“Right now…” He looked Steve up and down, remembering the harsh and hateful things that had spewed out of his mouth, but also the sweetness of his apology, and decided to tell the honest to god truth. “Well, I think you’re both. You were a real prick, and you’re still on my shit list, but I’m sort of calling that progress, and your sexiness can’t be denied. Now, Truth time. Tell me about your secret sketchbook.”

Steve quickly painted another yellow circle, this time around one of Bucky’s blues. “I draw you when you’re sleeping.”

“You’ve always drawn me when I’m sleeping.”

“I...um, _erotically_ draw you when you’re sleeping.”

Switching out orange for purple and amusement for out-of-control curiosity, Bucky painted an arrow on his own stomach, the line fitting perfectly between his abs and pointing right at his...“Oh, Stevie, did you draw a picture of my hard dick in the morning sun?”

“Yes, a lot of them. I’m on my second sketchbook.” The sheepishness was gone as Steve’s eyes followed the arrow, replaced by a little lip bite and a shift in his jeans. “Your hard dick is an excellent muse.”

Suddenly, Steve tipped his head and scrunched up his non-verbal communicators (aka eyebrows) in his universal sign for, ‘uhhh’.

“What?”

“Did you make the arrow purple on purpose? Because I know that you’re best friends with Clint and all, but purple is his color and that’s an arrow, and well, that would make me really uncomfortable…”

“No!” Bucky interrupted, because no! He’d done no such thing. But now that Steve had pointed it out, it was fucking hilarious! “Oh my god, no! No, baby.” Bucky snorted and yanked Steve up against him, smearing the purple all over their stomachs as they both cracked up...because jealousy had never been the issue, it was connection...and as their colors melded and mixed, their connection had never felt stronger.

Circles appeared around their nipples, they both got a new purple arrow pointing at their _purple helmeted warriors of love_ (because that shit was funny), Steve slashed an orange line across the scar on Bucky’s thigh, and Bucky turned the puncture under his rib into the eye of a yellow smiley face. The final touch was Steve painting a long blue line down Bucky’s spine and finishing it with a blue tramp stamp heart.

Something blue.

As they made circles around half of the holes, in every color except for red (yes, Bucky noticed), Bucky learned that Steve had spit in Tony’s coffee when they’d had Bucky in the stupid zoo animal cage in Berlin. Bucky told Steve that he’d fed stray dogs in Bucharest in the narrow alley behind his building, and that he still worried about what had happened to them after he’d left. They kept going, added loops of different colors around those first circles, growing, expanding, learning, and connecting until they’d covered half the wall and had ruined their carpet completely. When they finally both stepped back, dropping their brushes to the ground at their feet, the wall had become something new...unfinished and unclear...but definitely something more than before.

Bucky grasped Steve’s left hand, letting the red tape scratch at their pulse points where they were touching, and closed his eyes.

_This was how he was going to live..._

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find Lorien/drjezdzany here
> 
> [Drjezdzany](http://drjezdzany.tumblr.com/tagged/my-art/)
> 
>  
> 
> Find lucidnancyboy/Jessie Lucid Art here 
> 
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/)  
> [Tumblr](https://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading. If you want to chat about dysfunctional superheroes trying their best to be slightly less dysfunctional throw a comment our way. Hugs! :)
> 
> Chapter 3 Musical Inspiration:
> 
> A Day to Remember- "End of Me"  
> Lana del Rey- "13 Beaches"  
> Staind- "It's Been Awhile"  
> Avril Lavigne- "I'm With You"


	4. Braids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find the entire playlist of songs that inspired this story at [JessieLucidYouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLbGnycMfOsiCQkT2OKUZFlpvhm8PRw5MA)
> 
> The specific songs that inspired this chapter are listed in the end notes.
> 
> Hugs to everyone for taking this journey with us! We appreciate you! :)

                                 

 

**Rats Suck And So Does Bucky                                              Friday, July 14, 2017- 8:30 am**

When Bucky’s phone alarm started chiming at eight, he excitedly rolled away from Steve and popped out of the bed, which was baffling. Steve had never seen Bucky set an alarm, let alone respond to one in such a positive, cheerful way. Bounding around the foot of the bed like an overexcited baby deer, Bucky quickly yanked open a dresser drawer and pulled his ridiculous Iron Man shorts up over his naked butt. Then he fluffed out his hair, which was bending and twisting in shapes that could only be described as gravity-defying hair roller coasters. They’d taken a very sexy shower after they’d finished painting the wall for the night, and Bucky had rubbed the mop with a towel and had gone to sleep with it wet. Now, Bucky looked like he’d gotten a very aggressive perm, which Steve decided that he didn’t really mind all that much.

Slamming the drawer shut with a flourish, Bucky bounced his knees on the end of the bed and tickled the bottom of Steve’s feet through the sheets as he exclaimed, “I have a mission! I’ll be back.”

“Is it to prevent another robot apocalypse? I thought Schwarzenegger handled that one.”

“What do _you_ know about The Terminator?”

Steve chuckled because his answer was so typical. “I know that he vetoed a same-sex marriage bill twice, but didn’t pursue an appeal when a federal judge knocked down the ban. I know that he did a decent job pushing for better environmental policies, and that he blew up California’s deficit.”

“I think The Terminator would shoot you for that answer. That was embarrassing, Steve. I’m embarrassed for you right now.” Bucky hopped back off the bed and snatched his black ray-bans off the top of their dresser. Shoving them on his face, he flipped his poofy hair back over his shoulders and adopted the full Austrian accent. “I’ll be back.”

It was frighteningly authentic, and Steve wondered if some smartass Hydra goon had ever made The Winter Soldier utter that catchphrase in the nineties. That was a horrible thought. Horrible! Governor Schwarzenegger should pull his concealed carry Smith and Wesson.380 out of his belt holster and shoot Steve right in the foot for that one.

Bucky backed out the door, and Steve pulled the sheet over his face...wait. Quickly pulling it back down, he yelled, “Bring back coffee,” then pulled it back up...wait...shoving it back down, he yelled even louder, “And donuts!” The sound of the door cut him off. Damn. He really wanted a donut!  

The white sheet stayed over his face as he waited. He couldn’t imagine that Bucky had gone too far, considering that he’d left in just shorts and sunglasses, but anything was possible. While they were painting last night, Bucky had mentioned that he was worried about Tony. Maybe he was going to do an early morning check-in to make sure that Tony had made it back from his helicopter adventure?

Steve could only imagine what Bucky would find: Tony, probably passed out on the ratty plaid couch in his workshop...the one with the cushions that dipped down in the center and the broken spring that always managed to poke Steve in the back. The couch was a mystery. It had been in the workshop at the tower too, the blue and black pattern clashing with everything around it, and Tony had been very specific with the movers about transferring it to the compound. Whenever Steve sprawled out on it while Tony was working on the arm, he would pass the time by constructing elaborate origin stories: Tony’d had the plaid monstrosity since his college days at MIT, when he and his buddies had stolen it out of the back of a rusty van for kicks...he’d had an especially memorable night of wild sex with somebody special on it, and that’s how the spring got broken...or it had belonged to the young soldier in the Humvee who’d been killed in Afghanistan before Tony had been captured, the family allowing Tony to take it out of their basement as a reminder of why he wanted to change. No matter how many times Steve pestered him, Tony refused to disclose its origins, which made Steve all the more curious.

Bucky setting an alarm and getting FRIDAY to unlock the workshop so he could check on Tony with a hot mug of black coffee and a joke about the Iron Man shorts was a real possibility. If that wasn’t Bucky’s mission, they should go and do that anyway, because, for the first time, the idea of Tony hungover and alone on that ratty couch was making Steve uneasy...

Tugging the sheet even tighter around his butt, Steve tried to think of something else that Bucky might be doing half naked at eight in the morning. Meeting up with Sam for an invigorating run and beating him in bare feet just for the hell of it? No, but Steve tucked that idea away for later use...when Sam wasn’t angry at him anymore. Maybe Bucky was stealing Steve’s motorcycle again, riding it bare chested around the compound while FRIDAY captured the entire joyride to post on YouTube, just to make Steve laugh? Also not likely, but another great idea. Steve had to pull the sheet tighter to pin down his dick, because Bucky’s body was designed to ride a motorcycle; strong and muscular thighs, wide and sturdy shoulders, an aerodynamic jawline...actually...the chrome and leather pieces of the motorcycle looked like they’d been designed for _Bucky._

The carbon dioxide under the sheet was rising to a dangerous level, but Steve kept it tucked around him. He felt hungover. Groggy. Sluggish. Dehydrated. Steve hadn’t been hungover since the morning after Bucky had left for basic training. That night, he’d sat in the corner of their bedroom with a bottle of cheap Crab Orchard Bourbon that he’d bought with money he couldn’t afford to spend and had drank half the bottle, thinking about how awful life was going to be without Bucky around and what a loser Steve was for not being at basic too. Half had been enough to make him pass out, and when he’d come to the next morning, his head had been pounding, he’d felt like he was going to puke, and Bucky was still gone. That was it. He’d never been hungover like that again. But now, hiding under the sheet, he felt pretty damn close. Adrenaline? Stress? His body’s reaction to the tangible worry that Bucky was really going to leave...that he’d be gone for good, and, for the first time, it would have been his choice…

But Bucky was still here. Thank god, he was still here.

The door to their apartment opened again, which was surprisingly quick. Definitely not a Tony check-in, definitely not a little morning teasing at Sam’s expense, no wheelies doubling as soft-core porn on the tarmac...maybe fresh coffee and a dozen donuts? One could only hope. Bucky’s footsteps approached, and Steve was so damn thankful for them, thankful that new impressions were being made, so even if Steve vacuumed the footprints out of the carpet, new ones outlining Bucky’s ten toes would appear.

“Steve, why are you hiding under the sheet?”

“I don’t think I’m hiding.”

“I would call what you’re doing the _literal definition_ of hiding, but I’ll roll with it. If you aren’t _hiding_ , then why are you lying completely still with your entire body mummified by a sheet?”

“I’m thinking about donuts, wondering if you brought me one.”

The mattress sunk beside Steve’s hips, and Bucky chuckled. “Well, Stevie, while I didn’t bring you a donut, I did bring you something sweet. But I’m not giving it to you unless you uncover your pretty blue eyes.”

Steve swallowed, because Bucky sounded so much like the boy who’d told Stevie to set the melting licorice on the nightstand before they’d made love for the very first time. But it wasn’t him. Or was it? Was Steve allowed to linger in that far away moment under the sheet, or was he an asshole for wanting to? Steve thought it was okay...that maybe Bucky had said it was okay last night when he’d drawn circles around Steve’s belly button...that the name Stevie pouring out of his cupid bow lips was some sort of permission. But he’d thought that in Wakanda too, on a different night full of sentiment and scenery. Steve’s stomach felt even more queasy, and he made no moves to come out of his _hiding_ spot.

“Steve, are you okay under there? Ow, Jesus. You little fucker!”

“What? I didn’t even move…” Steve threw back the sheet, and the sight he was met with was equally sexy and horrifying. Bucky was sitting on the edge of the bed; the morning light was shining though their blinds and covering his tan chest with an undulating pattern of bright stripes. He’d pushed the sunglasses on top of his head so his poofy, chocolate brown hair was tucked behind his ears, and he was practically glowing with that big toothy smile. Their new wall was filling the negative space around him; the circles of pure color exploding behind Bucky’s happiness.

That was the sexy part.

Now for the horror...

A gross white rat was digging its sharp claws into Bucky’s right shoulder as he carefully held the wiggly thing against his chest. It had a piece of Bucky’s beautiful hair in its mouth... _its disgusting rat mouth_...and Bucky was letting it slobber all over the strands! Encouraging it even! Steve was about to say something, but, as soon as he opened his mouth, that freaky cross-eyed black rat jumped out of nowhere and landed right on Steve’s morning wood!

“Holy shit!” Steve shot up to his knees so fast that the rat intruders scattered to places unknown, and he screamed, “It attacked my fucking dick!”

Bucky literally fell off the bed in a big ball of laughter, and Steve was not amused. Not one bit! Grabbing his dick, Steve moved things around to make certain the sewer monster hadn’t done any permanent damage to his package. All four rat paws had wrapped around his extra hard motorcycle fantasy erection for god’s sake! Once Steve had reassured himself that he didn’t have any rat lacerations, Bucky stopped laughing and hesitantly peeked up over the edge of the bed.

“I mean, can you really blame him, Steve? Your _manhood_ is sticking up like a very enticing cat toy right now.” Bucky snorted as the white rat made a pathetic jump for the nightstand, only managing to snag the cord for the lamp and pulling it onto the floor, along with Steve’s phone, watch, a pile of books, _and_ the full glass of water that Steve had left there overnight. Because God hated him, the water sloshed over the entire mess, including the rodent! Great.

“First of all, Bucky, don’t ever call my dick ‘manhood’ again. That’s weird.” Gathering up the sheet, Steve bunched it around himself as fast as he could. “Secondly, I can’t believe that you just compared my dick to a _cat toy_!”

Bucky got a look. A very concerning look, and Steve pulled the sheet even tighter, like Egyptian cotton could somehow protect him from the mischievous smirk. Steve didn’t have a chance. Running his nose along the edge of the bed in one long, slow stroke, Bucky met Steve’s eyes before sensually licking his top lip.

“What are you doing?”

There was no response as Bucky’s fingers crept over the edge of the bed, getting closer and closer...  Steve leaned back because _what the hell was he doing!?_ When Bucky rolled his face up toward Steve, the motion starting from his ass and curving all the way through the top of his head, _Steve_ got more worried, and Steve’s _cat toy_ got more interested.

“Um...what are you…?”

Nuzzling his cheek against the cotton, Bucky nipped a fold in between his teeth and tugged a little, which was...holy shit. Without thinking, Steve’s hands automatically released the sheet around his hips, his mouth watering as Bucky locked eyes with him.

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky murmured in a honey smooth voice that was close enough to Steve’s cock that he could feel the heat of it.

The word was like magic, and Steve’s fingers danced across the top of Bucky’s head, urging him to come closer. “Yeah, baby?”

Opening his irresistible mouth the slightest bit, Bucky licked a circle around just the tip before whispering, _“Meow._ ”

 

**The Shit and Milk Handshake                                                   Friday, July 14, 2017- 2 pm**

07/14/2017 2pm

Individual Therapy Session: Captain Steven Grant Rogers

Preferred Name: Steve

Diagnosis: depression, anxiety, PTSD specifically relating to guilt; triggering physical outbursts, isolationism, suicidal ideation (past attempt)

Therapist Concerns- general: violence, excessive use of force, loss of control concerning events in Ukraine (06/24/17).

Relationship Status: long term monogamous partner (Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, “Bucky”)

Therapist Concerns- relationship: guilt, trust, honesty, communication, intimacy

 

00:07:22 [Excerpt from Recorded Material]

 _Steve:_ I don’t like the rats.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Tell me how they make you feel, Steve.

 _Steve:_ They stared at me when I was reading the newspaper this morning, and the white one jumped into the middle of the sports section. I didn’t like it.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Does the white one have a name?

 _Steve:_ Camo Rat.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Excuse me?

 _Steve:_ I don’t know, Bucky named it. It put its gross little foot in my glass of milk then shook it all over my arm.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ I think it’s trying to connect with you, to be your friend.

 _Steve:_ By putting its shit covered foot in my milk!? It’s gross! They shit, cover it up with their feet, and then Bucky lets them walk all over his face!

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Steve, the kitten is trying to interact with you and form a bond.

 _Steve:_ I’ve already fucked up the connections with my all of human friends, I don’t need to add rats to the equation.

00:08:59 [End Excerpt from Recorded Material]

 

Therapist Comments: Patient continues to have issues with intimate connection in both friendships and his relationship, as exemplified by his resistance to the therapy animals. Other concerns deferred (recommendation for daily sessions). Patient given exercise to make a list of the things he appreciates about his partner, as well as to pet the cats at least one time before next scheduled session (07/15/17).

 

 **The Waiting Room for Damaged Superheros**                             **Friday, July 14, 2017- 3 pm**

Bucky stood up in the waiting room as soon as Dr. Mayz opened the door to her office and practically shoved Steve through. Session number two and she was already having trouble hiding her frustration. She was a really nice lady; Tony had said that she came highly recommended, but how does someone truly prepare for a job like this? There aren’t any special classes in Graduate School to teach you how to best handle fucked up superheros with attitude problems, although, for comedic purposes, Bucky really wished that there were: ‘Psyc-521 Fundamentals of Enhanced Humans with Enhanced Sarcasm’, ‘Psyc-601 Advanced Memory and Cognition, Relating to Brain Damaged Assassins’, or ‘Psyc-622 Stress, Coping, and Emotion for the Therapist Dealing with Superhuman Assholes’. Bucky knew that Pepper had been the one to do the final interview, and if anyone knew about dealing with superhero bullshit it was Pepper Potts, but since she’d quit again...well, she’d quit _Tony_... maybe Dr. Mayz wouldn’t be far behind?

Tossing the latest issue of People Magazine back on the table, along with the blue ballpoint pen that he’d used to draw beautiful Tony Stark goatees onto every man, woman, and child (and even a few dogs) on all the pages, Bucky gave the poor woman a look that dared her to say something. Dr. Mayz _obviously_ saw Bucky’s carefully crafted goatee on the cover... Princess Charlotte looked pretty damn good with facial hair, if he said so himself...then she scanned the table to see that Jennifer Garner, Barry Manilow, and Oprah had also been graced by Bucky’s blue pen. He’d chosen to leave George Michael’s and Prince’s covers alone for two very important reasons. One: They both already had fantastic facial hair. Two: Bucky had _some_ respect. Dr. Mayz was blinking a bunch of times while Steve was trying not to laugh and kinda choking at the same time.

“Did you tell her all about our _furry_ adventure?” Bucky snickered as he strolled up to Snickering Steve. Yeah, Clint had shown Bucky one of _those_ videos too.

“What we discuss in our sessions is private, Bucky,” Dr. Mayz held out her arm, the gesture begging Bucky to ‘go in, go in the room, stop talking to Steve, stop making jokes that I don’t understand, go in the fucking room!’

Bucky made a point of not going in the room, instead looking right at her as he ‘whispered’ in Steve’s ear. “Did you _privately_ tell Dr. Mayz about our _private_ furry adventure?”

Steve snorted, and Bucky couldn’t stop himself from touching his pink cheek. “Your face is gettin’ pretty furry too, Stevie. I bet if you…”

“No,” Dr. Mayz interrupted. “This is a professional practice. The two of you are supposed to be professional…”

“Superheros?” Steve offered.

“Vigilantes?” Bucky tossed it out there for the hell of it.

She pushed in between the two of them and actually backed Bucky into her office with her little five-foot-four frame. “People! Professional _people_. So, if you would professionally sit down and wait, Captain Rogers, while I professionally talk to Sergeant Barnes, I would appreciate…”

“According to Ross,” Bucky interrupted, “Steve’s a professional vigilante, so you can’t call him Captain Rogers anymore. Hey, Steve,” he yelled over Dr. Mayz’s shoulder as she tried to pull the door shut. “While I’m stuck in here, pretending to be a professional, you should start coming up with new names! Oh, and costumes! I’m voting for a deep V!”

 

 **Can Kittens Fly a Quinjet?**                                                       **Friday, July 14, 2017- 3:10 pm**

07/14/2017

Individual Therapy Session: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes

Preferred Name: Bucky

Diagnosis: PTSD specifically relating to guilt (physical outbursts, isolationism, suicidal ideation/attempt), Dissociative Identity Disorder (imposed brainwashing)

Therapist Concerns- general: severe PTSD symptoms relating to past trauma: nightmares, violent outbursts, dissociative episodes, guilt re: The Winter Soldier crimes, negative/distorted self-image, inability to connect with past, suicidal tendencies, passive suicide attempt: Odessa, Ukraine (07/22-07/25/2017), cognitive stability re: trigger words (continued remote work with Dr. Ncapayi (Wakanda).

Relationship Status: long term monogamous partner (Captain Steven Grant Rogers, “Steve”)

Therapist Concerns- relationship: guilt, trust, honesty, communication, intimacy

 

00:01:02 [Excerpt from Recorded Material]

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Tell me, Bucky, why did you choose to take my suggestion and adopt two kittens? Which, first, let me tell you, I was very happy to hear, although it would have been a better exercise in trust building if you had made the decision with Steve.

 _Bucky:_ So wait, are you happy about the kittens or do you want to bitch at me about them?

 _Dr. Mayz:_ I was merely suggesting that…

 _Bucky:_ It’s okay, go ahead and bitch. Everyone else is.

           _(therapist note: patient continues to interrupt therapist)_

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Other people besides Steve are upset by their presence?

 _Bucky:_ No, just Steve.

_(therapist note: distorted thinking. Steve is “everyone”)_

_Dr. Mayz:_ I’m sorry, Bucky. You’re absolutely right. Let’s back up. Why did you choose to adopt the kittens?

 _Bucky:_ I was impressed with Camo Rat’s tactical skills for stealth. I thought that she could be a valuable addition to the team. And Black Panther has done so much to save my ass this year. I wasn’t gonna turn my back on him when he needed me.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ I’m sorry, Black Panther?

 _Bucky:_ Yeah, he’s an honorary Avenger. I roll with kings and kittens now.

00:03:31 [End Excerpt from Recorded Material]

 

Therapist Comments: Patient demonstrates use of humor to deflect inquiry (defense mechanism). Concern about distorted thinking re: Steve Rogers and his overarching impact on Bucky’s perception of reality. Further evaluation needed re: connection with reality/possible delusions. Does patient indeed believe the therapy kittens are part of the Avengers? Patient given exercise to make a list of the things he appreciates about his partner before next scheduled session (07/15/17). Other concerns deferred: recommendation for daily sessions, schedule remote mental assessment with Dr. Ncapayi STAT, consult with Dr. Cho re: possible physical impact of events in Odessa on the brain.

 

 **Bucky With The Good Hair** **Friday, July 14, 2017- 6:30 pm**

Well, this was different. Also, surprisingly enjoyable. Bucky had expected to eat a hamburger, show Natasha the millions of pictures of BP and Cam that he’d taken with a wide assortment of filters, eat another hamburger...normal cookout stuff. He had _not_ expected to be sitting in a comfortable deck chair getting his hair done while everyone looked on, mesmerized. But, hey, nothing in Bucky’s life took place on the ‘normal’ spectrum. He had managed to eat two juicy hamburgers with melted cheddar cheese and big slices of fresh tomato before Sam had opened up his beauty salon, so at least there was that.

Watching Sam’s hands moving in his peripheral vision and pulling back the hair that Bucky had grown accustomed to artfully shaking into his face felt different. Sure, some days his shaggy hair ended up in a messy topknot, or an on-trend man-bun, but Bucky always left a few pieces hanging down the back of his neck and swinging loosely over his eyes. Every time he fucked around with it in the bathroom mirror, Bucky told himself it looked cooler that way, but that was just another line of high quality bullshit.

After the therapy session today, Bucky’d left it down on purpose. Super down. If he were to compare himself to one of Clint’s grunge icons, Bucky would have to go with Kurt Cobain. Truthfully, Bucky was surprised he hadn’t run into any walls or impaled himself on any sculptures on the way to the balcony BBQ. His hair felt soft swingin’ around all over his face, maybe it was its own kind of protective shield or cocoon...or mask. Fuck that. Bucky wasn’t even gonna let himself think ‘mask’. No, it was like a fucking protective shield. That was his story and he was sticking with it. Jesus.

The fact was, for all the joking and giving Dr. Mayz a really, really, really hard time, talking about stuff wasn’t easy. And Bucky had _professionally_ talked about a few things once he’d gotten all of his high quality _wiener_ jokes out of the way. Fun things like how many times a week he wakes up in the middle of the night drenched in a cold sweat, or how often he has to crawl to the bathroom and into the corner of the dry shower, shoving every single strand of hair over his face while he squeezes his knees so hard that they bruise. Wonderful things like the way Bucky feels every fucking time he’s firing a weapon or engaged in hand to hand combat. That one was the fucking worst, and Dr. Mayz had to kneel at Bucky’s feet to help him get his breathing under control after that little gem. Why? Because Bucky was scared shitless that he _enjoyed_ the recoil of the guns and the dominance of throwing a living, breathing human being across the room a little too much and that he couldn’t blame it on The Soldier anymore. He lived in a state of perpetual fear that maybe Bucky was something of The Soldier still.

After enduring that therapeutic nightmare _and_ listening to Steve bitching for forty-five minutes about Camo Rat sticking her cute boo-baby kitty paw in his precious glass of milk, then finding out that Steve had deliberately locked BP in the bathroom because ‘Its crossed eyes freak me out! What’s it even looking at!?’ Bucky had left his hair down deliberately; full Cobain.

But there was a wonderful rhythm to Sam’s hands as he pulled the comb across Bucky’s scalp again and again to execute what was turning out to be the world’s most relaxing Dare. It was strangely soothing and it was taking him to a happy place where Steve was tickling BP’s puffy belly and sneaking Cam little pieces of turkey from his sandwich under the kitchen table.

Everyone else probably assumed that Bucky was lazy for letting his hair grow, and grow, and grow...or that he was trying to fit in with the hipsters...but the truth was he hated the feeling of certain fabrics, especially leather, touching any part of his body. Leather subway benches, leather plane seats, leather watches...actually, watches and anything with buckles could fuck off completely...and even leather jackets. Anything made with the skin of the dead required Bucky to put a barrier of some sort between his body and the cold feeling of the leather, which made his grunge/hipster/seventies hair a complete necessity. But that wasn’t the only reason, as much as Bucky wished that it was. Dr. Mayz had pushed Bucky to jam a shovel deep into the dirt and dig up an even deeper reason that he’d buried at the bottom of his fucked up psyche. He didn’t want to look like James Buchanan Barnes.

Settling back in the chair, Bucky shifted his butt around because the tingly pins and needles were making themselves known. It had been a really nice night so far; just Clint, Natasha, Sam, Tony, and Steve relaxing...as much as their group of extremely high strung people _could_ relax...over summertime food while wearing summertime outfits. Bucky felt bad that Rhodey was under the weather and that Wanda and Scott had to go to the city to help a certain little shit in a spandex suit with some sort of taco heist...or to stop another plane crash...it could go either way with that kid. Bucky was just happy they didn’t try to send him as backup; not that they ever would. The wee lad had informed his nanny, the nurturing Mr. Stark, that ‘He was a little scared of The Winter Soldier’. Whatever, he didn’t wanna end up with more spider jizz stuck all over the fucked up arm anyway. Bucky might have a little resentment...just a touch...and if he’d dug a big ol’ hole in the garden and had buried the Spider Boy shorts that Tony’d given him as a joke, while Ronnie the flirty gardener had laughed hysterically...well, Bucky was completely justified.

Truth: Spider Shit had straight up kicked Bucky’s ass, and he wanted a rematch. Problem: the kid was like seven, and it would be a total dick move to punch a seven-year-old in the face with a cybernetic arm because The Winter Soldier was a sore loser. So, maybe Bucky had buried the shorts underneath the watermelons to try to hide his shame...or something like that. He should probably ask Dr. Mayz tomorrow if aggressively burying harmless shorts in the garden was a normal thing to do.

“Hey, tip your head a little, man. I need a better angle.” Sam was working his way around the side of his scalp, bending over and sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he pulled more strands up and away from Bucky’s shoulders. Steve and the rest of them were all watching with a variety of expressions; confused, impressed, freaked out, loving...play ‘Match the Avenger to the Expression’ if you Dare. But Bucky chose not to focus on their faces, instead, looking past all of them towards the tops of the trees in the distance as the tugging behind his ears became stronger and more relaxing.

The balcony that ran along the second floor on the back of the compound faced north, with a stunning view of the wide expanse of perfectly mowed, green checkered grass before the field gave way to the forest. If the helicopters and jets had been quiet for long enough, there was a herd of nine or ten deer that grazed along the edge of the treeline. When Bucky and Clint were bored and looking for trouble, the balcony was one of their go-to hangout spots, where spending an hour or two competing to see who could nail the targets on the furthest trees with Clint’s specialized recurve bow was good for the soul. Clint had said that last new-agey part, but Bucky had to agree. Bucky liked the feeling of the bow. The Soldier had never used one, so it felt new in his hands. Clint held the current record: hitting the target dead center on the Red Maple at two hundred meters. Bucky was a close second with a perfect bullseye on the narrow River Birch at one-ninety-five.

When Bucky had climbed up the trees to tack up the targets on an overcast day in the middle of April, it had been the first time that he’d really considered leaving. The abstract thought that he’d been trying to ignore since Wakanda transforming into a tangible plan of action…

 

  
Bucky was perched in the fork between the thick branches of the biggest Bur Oak, staring across the manicured lawn towards the sprawling compound. Ross’ Psych team had told Bucky that morning that they weren’t confident that the Wakandan intervention into his programming would hold, and that the American Government was _very concerned_ about buried triggers and the safety of the team. Tony had been sitting in the corner when Ross and his team had delivered the news, and every word had made it more and more clear why Steve’s name had purposely been left off the guest list. Even though none of them had the guts to say it outright, Bucky had known exactly what they’d meant; he’d seen the cryotube arrive on the cargo plane from Wakanda a few days prior. FRIDAY had given Bucky enough information to figure out that it was being installed in a room in sub-level three, a room that had a variety of restraints designed by Tony Stark. When Ross had opened his entitled mouth and had said ‘We are very concerned about the safety of the team,’ while Tony had sat there chewing his nails, Bucky’d heard their plan loud and clear.

Bucky sat in the tree, poking at the buds that yesterday’s rain had started transforming into green leaves and now provided adequate cover to conceal Bucky’s position, thinking...waiting. Steve was hanging out on the balcony, wearing his Patriot’s hat with a big smile and talking to Wanda and Natasha. Bucky’s hearing was good enough to easily pick up Steve’s laughter on the northeastern breeze, but the only thing that he heard was _‘We are very concerned about the safety of the team...the safety of Steve. We are very concerned that you will kill every member of this team, including Steve Rogers, by jamming a knife through their temples while they sleep…’_

The Soldier leaned forward on the biggest branch, the one that was wide enough to support his weight and level enough to set up a Barret .50 Cal rifle, and made his assessment. The sightline to the balcony was unobstructed so he slowly moved the muscles in his body into the precise position required to line up the shot, easy at two-hundred-twenty meters. The Soldier had taken out a target at over two-thousand meters with the same weapon somewhere in Algeria not that long ago. Bucky could remember the shot, but nothing else surrounding it. Breathing out slowly, his flesh finger adjusted for the creep in the imaginary trigger before it fired.

The Soldier stayed perfectly still and watched Steve’s face change from lighthearted to concerned as the hours ticked by and Bucky still hadn’t returned. Eventually Wanda and Natasha left him alone, both offering long hugs before they departed, and Steve leaned against the railing looking towards the forest. The Soldier knew how to conceal himself and would keep every part of himself completely still, unmoving for however long it would take for Steve to turn his attention elsewhere. When it got dark, Steve launched three deck chairs and a giant umbrella over the railing. The Soldier easily heard Steve screaming ‘Fuck!’ nine times before he stormed inside.

Bucky noted that the moon had risen over the horizon and was now high in the sky, illuminating the checkers on the grass and casting strange shadows from the tree branches onto the body of The Soldier. Approximately nine hours had passed since Bucky had used the metal arm to pull himself up into the tree, but he still couldn’t make the images stop: the bullet screaming across the field...the deer alerting and leaping back to the relative safety of the trees...Steve’s skull exploding onto the white wall of the compound in a vicious splatter of red.

Over and over on an unending loop, The Soldier’s index finger twitched every thirty seconds to fire one shot and make one kill. One shot. One kill. The mantra of the young sniper Sergeant Barnes mixing with The Soldier’s programming to never fail a mission. Bucky couldn’t feel his extremities, he’d pissed in his fucking jeans, and still, he couldn’t break free of The Soldier’s loop. As the moon neared the western tree line, a Great Horned Owl landed on a branch three feet above him, staring at The Soldier with its round yellow eyes as its powerful claws dug into the bark. There was a cinematic moment, complete with a swelling soundtrack, when the two predators locked eyes, and Bucky thought he was about to receive a life changing revelation...the secret of the universe gifted to him by The Great Horned Owl…

Then the fucker shit on Bucky’s back.

 

How to deal with intrusive thoughts: Owl shit

Life Changing Revelation: In this journey called life, if you stay in one place long enough, you _will_ get shit on.

PS: Not typically by a Great Horned Owl...

 

Bucky jumped out of that big old Oak tree and flipped the bird at the mother fucking owl, which looked smug as hell, stripped off his owl shit shirt and threw it into an Elderberry bush, stumbled out of his piss jeans and launched them at the smart ass owl who didn’t even flinch, then walked right up the center of the perfectly checkered lawn towards the white walls of the compound wearing nothing but his blue Vans and his moonlit birthday suit.

Bucky slid under the covers with Steve at five o’clock in the morning and folded around his back, pressing his ear against Steve’s shoulder blade and listening to his lungs expanding and contracting with soft little snores. The Soldier stayed there, holding position and counting the number of breaths for the next three hours and fifty-two minutes until Captain Steven Grant Rogers exited the sleep cycle. Final number of resting respirations: three-thousand-one-hundred-twenty.

Bucky had kissed the center of Steve’s spine with tears in his eyes, knowing that eventually he was gonna shit on Steve.

The idea was sharp and clear. Definitive. Logical. Bucky should leave.

  
  
But now, when Bucky glanced up at that same spot on the wall, 12 MOA below the perpendicular line of the gutter, 6 MOA left of the vertical downspout, he felt confident that the wall would stay white. No trigger word would ever take Bucky back to a place where he fired weapons at someone else’s command. No Truth would ever make him shove the journals that he’d hidden underneath the floor back into his backpack, nothing would make Steve throw all of Bucky’s shit into a quadruple layered Hefty bag and toss it out the window onto the checkered lawn, and, when The Soldier made his presence known, Bucky wouldn’t try to hide it. If he found himself stuck in a tree again, he’d give Dr. Mayz a jingle and then try his best to tell Steve without scaring the living daylights out of him.

This was called progress. Everything was still a clusterfuck, but they’d made enough headway for Bucky to sit comfortably in a deck chair and let Sam Wilson braid his hair for as long as he wanted (or until Ross came to arrest everybody). Relaxing his neck, Bucky gave in to the tugging and twisting of his hair, enjoying the feeling of a stomach stuffed with two juicy hamburger, three johnsonville brats with extra mustard, and most of a bag of salty Ruffles. Bucky’d made the mistake of sharing the fatty, salt-covered, crunchy, heavenly deliciousness with Clint, earning himself the evil eye from a certain someone in a wide brimmed hat and flip flops. Washing it all down with his third cold beer, Bucky even had to loosen the drawstring on his shorts, which was the ultimate sign of a successful summertime barbecue. It felt fucking amazing.

It had been a joke, a conversation over the grill about Steve and Bucky’s status post Whore Gate, Battle of the Bacon, and the tactical interventions of their kickass friends. Natasha wanted to know about Steve’s introduction to his new family members Camo Rat Rogers and BP Barnes...no...that wasn’t gonna work. Bucky could not, in good conscience, call his kitten ‘Black Panther Barnes’...that was wrong on so many levels. ‘Black Panther Rogers-Barnes’? No! Fuck no! That was so much worse! Jesus! Bucky needed a wet wipe for his brain after that mental ménage á trois. Fine, the two of them were gonna have to rock it like Madonna and be first name only kittens...well, _technically_ Camo Rat had a middle name…did ‘Rat’ count?...whatever, he gave up.

 _Anyway,_ Clint had brought up Bucky and Steve’s _very healthy_ implementation of Truth or Dare into their new daily routine, and since Tony, Clint, and Sam didn’t benefit from supersoldier metabolisms to process the ridiculous amount of beer they’d been consuming, there had been a unanimous decision that it would be a fan-fucking-tastic idea for all of them to play.

Bucky had ventured a look at Steve, who’d been chillin’ in a lounge chair with his bare feet crossed at the ankles, lookin’ all cute in a baseball style shirt and a pair of dark grey Adidas shorts with the white stripes. The baseball hat was making another appearance, and he’d had little round wet spots on his chest from the bottom of his beer. Adorable. Bucky loved him so goddamn much, even with the tornados and tantrums. Before the game had begun, Steve had shrugged his shoulders and thrown a wink across the deck. Adorable! Had Bucky already used adorable? Yes? Well, he was gonna fucking use it again! Adorable!

The beer (whiskey in Tony’s case) had brought out the secrets:

 

 _Tony:_ Bucky, do you know why my Bugatti looks like someone did donuts in the middle of a county fair? There’s grass and mud jammed so far up into the wheel wells that I’m gonna have to get it power washed!

 _Bucky:_ Why, yes, Tony. I most certainly do. Steve and I had a jolly good time playing a real life game of Grand Theft Auto/Fast and The Furious with a couple of your babies the other night. I stupidly drove the Bugatti off the road after I kicked Steve’s ass drag racing. Did you know that low profile cars don’t do too well in soft dirt and tall grass? Oh, you did know that? I, obviously, did not. Lucky for you, Steve and I managed to carry it back to the road, which _was a bitch_ with my arm being on the fritz. Bugatti’s are fucking heavy!

 

Tony had gotten a little salty after that great reveal, plus that wasn’t the type of Truth that this balcony get-together was going for. Natasha had called them out on of the abundant Truths versus the pitiful amount of Dares and had restarted the game with new rules:

  1. No more Truths
  2. Funny Dares only
  3. No nudity



Right out of the gate, Clint had broken rule number three and had dared Bucky to get Maria Hill on video conference and moon her. The Dare hadn’t been for a simple little bend and flash, like he’d blessed Clint with at the hospital...nope. It had been for Bucky to pull his shorts just below his butt, touch his toes, and give Maria the full moon for as long as it took for her to hang up the call. Bucky wasn’t a chickenshit when it came to juvenile humor, so Tony’d grabbed a laptop and had dialed her right up lickety split. Maria had sat there with her arms folded, totally nonplussed, until Bucky’s toes had started to go numb. He’d lasted four minutes and nineteen seconds before he’d yanked his shorts back up in defeat. Maria Hill could have lasted forever.

Tony had dared Clint to kiss Natasha, thinking he was being tricky or shifty or something. But Clint was too smart for that. He’d moseyed over all easy breezie and had given Natasha a tiny peck on the lips then had proceeded to give the same exact tiny peck to everyone else. Cracking up, Bucky had thought ‘Touché’. Bucky’d dared Natasha to give Steve a sexy lap dance, and while he had the courtesy of looking appropriately embarrassed, Bucky couldn’t help but think about how _not_ embarrassed Steve had looked when Bucky had done the same thing naked a few weeks ago. And Steve, in an effort to continue his endless promotion of gender equality, had dared Tony to give _Natasha_ an even sexier lap dance, and, in all honesty, he hadn’t been half bad.

But the point was, one Dare had led to another, until finally Steve had dared Sam to do Bucky’s hair. And that’s how Bucky ended up chillin’ in his happy place in a deck chair, with Sam Wilson bending over to look at him from all angles with a mouth full of hair pins that Natasha had grabbed from ‘her apartment’. Everyone was still staring when Sam pulled the last of Bucky’s hair away from his shoulder, smiling with a big ol’ Sam grin and nodding like he was the shit.

“Mmm hmm, my Aunt Margie would be damn proud of me right now. I haven’t worked my magic since my cousin Raja went off to college.” He threw up his fist, which Bucky bumped despite his total confusion. Chuckling, Sam said, “You look fine as hell, Bucky. If I do say so myself.”

“What did you do to me?” Bucky was kinda afraid to move his hands to feel his head. Had he made Bucky look like a fucking idiot? Was that the reason Tony’s mouth was catching flies and Steve had flipped his baseball hat backwards in some sort of shellshocked daze?

Yanking up the lid on the grill to grab a completely overcooked hot dog, Sam shoved a burnt bite in his mouth before mumbling, “I gave you the fanciest hairdo that those scraggly locks have ever seen.”

Clint leaned forward in his chair and patted Bucky’s cheek. “Damn, I’ve just gotta call a spade a spade. You look so fucking pretty, buddy.”

Pretty?

Pretty was the way Cam’s puffy white fur had softly blown around in the current of the fan this morning while she’d slept in Steve’s white sneaker. Pretty was Steve’s hands confidently sketching across a piece of beach white paper to create something out of thin air. Pretty was Natasha’s curls piled high atop her head and adorned with white calla lilies in a secret photograph. Pretty was the delicate girl with the strawberry blonde braids who’d always picked the dandelions that grew in the cracks of their Brooklyn sidewalks, presenting them to fourteen-year-old James Buchanan Barnes with a gap toothed grin…

Bucky was mangled roadkill that someone had tried to stitch back together to make him presentable enough for the fucking zoo.

Tony stumbled forward and plopped his ass down in Steve’s lap for some insane reason. It was funny how quickly Steve’s hands jumped into the air like he was under arrest. Tony didn’t seem to notice (or care), squinting at Bucky and slurring, “Sam, is this how you paid your way through college? Or was that the ROTC? Did you even go to college? Was it for hair braiding? Oh my god, Steve,” Tony yelled, twisting around in his lap. “Did you know that Sam’s available on non-Avenger weekends to gussy up your hair for weddings and Proms? Sam, _please_ tell me you’ve done hair for someone’s wedding. Please, please, please.”

Pretty?

The scar tissue around the arm was getting worse every day. It wasn’t healing right this time, and every time Bucky looked at it in the mirror he felt like a monster…

 

 

> _“Ya know, Stevie, one of these days I’m not gonna be this handsome, as difficult as that is to believe.” Bucky chuckled, dodging a fire escape ladder that had slipped down on it’s rails. “You sure you’re still gonna love me when my face isn’t this dashing?”_

 

“I’m about to make your day, Tony,” Sam announced, proud as can be, “because my cousin Dajane had a big church wedding with ten bridesmaids the year before I joined up, and me and my Aunt made those girls look fresh. My Aunt Margie, well, she had it pretty rough. Four daughters, one son, a deadbeat dad, and not much help. After school and on weekends I’d help her with the kids when I was a teenager. If she had to stay late at work, I’d just take my homework to her place and hang out until she got home. Doing hair for four girls is no joke, and Margie didn’t have the cash or the time, so she taught me how to do it. I dunno, I picked it up real quick, and it always made the girls smile.”

Pretty?

 

 

> _The Soldier presses the wounds with a shirt ripped off the target. The old man had taken advantage of a pot of hot coffee, smashing it in The Soldier’s face before the knife had severed the carotid artery. Glass had rained down as the target had fallen to the floor. Arterial spray had pulsed onto The Soldier._
> 
> _The metal hand reaches to touch the face. Objective: Mirror to assess damage._
> 
> _The Soldier stares at the reflection; shards of glass stick out of the cheekbone, lips, forehead, second degree burns to right half of face, blood pouring heavily from each wound as glass shards are removed, mixing with the blood of the target. The Soldier blinks three times and has a thought not derived from his programming…_
> 
> _Stevie could never love this face._

 

Bucky sensed Natasha and her phone, just managing to give her the finger before the camera snapped. “You really do look pretty, medvezhonok," she whispered before handing over the phone.

He couldn’t believe it was him.

Sam had somehow taken Bucky’s tangled hair and had smoothed every strand into a braid that curved around his head and spiraled into a flower on the left side, just behind his ear. The delicateness of it did look...pretty. The sharp line of his jaw seemed softer, and the wrinkles next to his eyes seemed less obvious. Glancing up he found Steve quietly staring at him, gently smiling in the middle of the boisterous chaos around them, and Bucky didn’t want to hide. He didn’t.

But any sense of calm was interrupted when Tony loudly clapped his hands together. “Welp, you learn something new and weird every day. Sam, stellar work. Kudos to Aunt Margie. Hey, I have a new name for you Buckynutbutterton, I declare you on par with the Queen Bee and christen you ‘Bucky With The Good Hair’.”

Jumping off Steve, Tony stumbled forward, and Bucky caught him by the biceps by sheer reflex. The arm took most of the weight, pushing backwards enough to trigger a powerful spasm diagonally across Bucky’s back. Tony must have seen the pain register on Bucky’s face, because he grunted and said, “I’m surprised that thing hasn’t fallen off yet. Not my best work. I’ll admit it. Really, everybody expects me to remember fucking _everything_. I’m sorry I didn’t include the upgraded model with the electrical dampeners...I was in a hurry...I was doing shit remotely...I hated you.”

The smile that crossed Tony’s face more a of grimace as he got right in Bucky’s face. “But I don’t hate you now, Buck-bee. I’m a recovered Winter Soldier hater. I’ve got sixteen days clean! Is that right? Twenty days? Who knows? I’m too busy _not_ being clean, you know, with the _alcohol_ , to fucking keep count. One, two, nine. See.”

“Tony, it’s alright,” Bucky whispered, standing up to steady him, because he was seriously listing to the left. “Maybe you should drink some water or…”

“Wait. I’m not done!” He put his hands on either side of Bucky’s face and squished his cheeks. Giving him a sad smile, Tony murmured, “You do look pretty.”

Pretty?

 

 

> _Sergeant Barnes, sitting in the corner of an abandoned barn in Italy while his men slept, spitting on his hands and trying desperately to scrub off the dirt and blood with the undershirt he’d stripped off his body. He couldn’t get it off. He couldn’t fucking get it off! Private Tommy Beecher from Minnesota had bled out from a bullet wound to his lower left flank in a shit filled field underneath Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes’ hands. And he couldn’t get it off his skin. It was underneath his fingernails, burgundy and black, it was in the cracks in his knuckles, he could feel it covering his cheeks...and throat...and teeth. He was covered with shit and blood and spit and he couldn’t get it off...he was never going to get it all off..._

 

“Hey, Tony, are you okay?” Steve had come up from behind, helping to steady Tony at the waist and taking the beer...that had materialized out of nowhere...out of his hand. Bucky shook his head to try and clear it...forcing his fingers to stop picking at the skin on his throat...

“Oh, god no, I’m not okay in the slightest. I’m horrible!” Tony snorted, announcing, “We’re all going to Avenger’s prison. Well, not Barton, because Hawkeye over there was too busy being mostly dead to help the rest of us send fifty-four people to an early grave so we could rescue Buck-yoncé. I can already feel myself getting seasick from the motion of the ocean. Do you think they provide Dramamine to the prisoners on The Raft? Sam, Clint, you’ve both enjoyed a lovely stay at the five star underwater prison. Did you get seasick? Did they provide five star turn-down service? You know, with the little chocolate mint under the pillow? Those are so delicious!”

Suddenly, Natasha stepped behind Bucky, her breath gently blowing across his exposed neck as she spoke. “Tony, what are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.” Tony fell backwards into Steve’s chest and laughed. “I have a plan. It’s all gonna be copacetic. I even had FRIDAY order us up some new team uniforms. We have a new catchphrase, but it’s a secret. Shhh.”

“Okay,” Sam said, “I think it’s time to call it a night. Natasha, can you help me with this?”

As Sam and Natasha hauled him toward the door, Tony cackled and yelled, “Later gators! We can talk gloom and doom tomorrow. FRIDAY, schedule a Doom and Gloom Meeting for tomorrow at ten. No, wait, I’m drunk. I’ll probably still be drunk at ten. Let’s push it to one. Doom and Gloom commences at one o’clock sharp! FRIDAY, order a fruit and cheese plate! And don’t forget the Brie this time. Everyone enjoys the Brie.”

“Wow.” Clint shook his head and threw an arm around Bucky’s shoulder. “He’s gonna regret that in the morning. You guys alright out here?”

The way Clint checked in with Bucky was so subtle, and damn if it didn’t make Bucky feel safe. Bucky nodded, the odd sensation of no hair falling over his eyes taking him off guard. “Cool. We’ll get all this cleared up tomorrow. Goddamn, I feel like you need to moon Maria again, just to get the mood back up.”

As soon as Clint had pulled the sliding glass doors shut, Steve gently poked at Bucky’s hair. He spoke with something like wonder when he said, “It was supposed to be a funny Dare, but god, Buck. Sam made you look as beautiful as the Hora of Spring in Botticelli’s ‘Birth of Venus’.”  

“Did you just called me a whore again?” Bucky swallowed and tried to push back the tears, because he knew exactly which Renaissance painting Steve was talking about, and for Steve to remember...for him to compare Bucky to her…

 

They’d been chasing a lead in Italy with The Howlies and one of their connections in the Royal Italian Army, Sergente Luca Orfanelli, had taken them ten miles southwest of Florence to Montegufoni Castle while they’d been waiting for their orders to come through. Bucky’d told Luca that Steve was an artist when they’d been making small talk, and later that night they’d all found themselves crammed onto the flatbed of a Fiat 626 as Luca steered the truck down a two track road through the trees. They’d had no idea where he’d been taking them. They couldn’t have known that Luca was about to give Steve and Bucky a gift that would stick with them for as long as they lived...even though that had been a short time for Bucky, the impact hadn’t been any less important.

The moment Luca had led them through an intricate stone archway into the great hall, the rest of the Howlies had backed out of the room immediately, and had allowed Bucky and Steve to share the experience by themselves. They’d been good men, all of them, and they’d always understood. Steve had held his candle aloft, casting a glow across the stone floor, and there, leaning against a wall, ‘The Birth of Venus’ and ‘Primavera’ had sat side by side in their gilded frames. They’d sat cross-legged on the floor, holding hands in front of the most beautiful paintings that Bucky had ever seen, and neither of them had said a word for over an hour. But even more beautiful than Botticelli’s masterpieces was the way that Steve’s face had looked as he’d marveled at them; reverent, blessed, awed, and full of childlike wonder.

There had been hundreds of priceless works of art filling that castle, placed there to protect it from the German bombs, and Steve had chosen to spend all of his time marveling at the folds in the cloth, the delicate floral patterns on the dresses, the intricacies of the leaves in the trees, and the way that Botticelli had painted the complicated twists of the braids. When Steve had kissed Bucky in front of those masterpieces that night, touching the red cotton strings tied around Bucky’s wrist that Steve had braided with threads from a dress he’d stolen from a farmhouse, he’d made Bucky feel beautiful. Even with everything happening inside of him, Steve had made him feel _beautiful_ …

 

“No, baby. I would never call you that again. I’m so sorry. No, it’s a painting…”

“I know, Stevie,” Bucky interrupted, giving himself permission to lean his weight against him. “I remember how pretty it was.”

“Bucky.” Steve traced a slow line along his jaw with his thumbs, letting them slide across the tops of his ears before whispering, “You’ve always had that painting beat by a mile.”

 

 **Things I appreciate about Bucky** **Saturday, July 15, 2017- 10 am**

07/15/2017 (Saturday) 10 am

Individual Therapy Session: Captain Steven Grant Rogers

Preferred Name: Steve

 

00:01:10 [Excerpt from Recorded Material]

 _Dr. Mayz:_ How was your day yesterday?

 _Steve:_ Good. We had a cookout with most of the team last night.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ There was no conflict? You would characterize it as a positive experience?

 _Steve:_ The burgers were really good, Tony was drunk, and Bucky looked really pretty in his braid.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Bucky braided his hair?

 _Steve:_ No, Sam braided his hair. He’s a like a sculptor, but with hair. He placed it perfectly to frame Bucky’s face. I was really impressed.

          [Audio Gap]

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Did you do your homework?

 _Steve:_ Yes. I poked each rat one time.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Can you talk about your aversion to touching the kittens?

 _Steve:_ I just said I poked them! What do you want?

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Steve, take a deep breath. Would you like to try a worry stone today?

 _Steve:_ Fine. Give it to me. Actually, give me two.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Let’s move forward. Did you bring your list of things that you appreciate about your partner?

 _Steve:_ Yes. But I did a shit job.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Can you read it out loud to me?

 _Steve:_ Do I have to?

 _Dr. Mayz:_ No, everything is your choice here, Steve. But I think it would be extremely helpful.

          [Audible Sigh]

 

_(therapist note: see copy-addendum 6B)_

 

Things I appreciate about Bucky

By Steve Rogers

  1. Bucky makes me laugh.
  2. Bucky has always been there for me. Even though now I’m learning that it was a horrible burden for him all these years, and I was a totally ungrateful asshole about it, and it got him killed. So maybe I shouldn’t put that one on the list because if you simplify it, it would say ‘I appreciate that Bucky let me kill him’.
  3. I wrote number 3, but it’s really number 2, but you said at least 10 things so I’m leaving it. Bucky is a talented sniper. Wait, that’s a ‘past’ thing. I’m not supposed to be thinking about the past. Or am I? I’m still confused about that. Bucky doesn’t exactly use his sniper skills that much now anyway. Now he just straight up annihilates everything at close range, which he’s also very good at. Unless he’s trying to annihilate me, then it’s the worst thing in the world. But still, I appreciate his skill as a soldier. Shit. Not as a soldier. I can’t do this. You can’t count this one either. Shit.
  4. Bucky is resilient. He’s been through things I can’t even fathom. That’s it. I can’t write anything else about that right now...
  5. Bucky is kind. He always looks out for everyone else.
  6. Bucky is a better man than me.
  7. Bucky has really pretty hair.
  8. Bucky scooped the rat litter after the white rat took an impossibly big and stinky shit this morning.
  9. Bucky knows how to live in the present.
  10. Bucky is alive.



00:13:04 [End Excerpt from Recorded Material]

  
Therapist Comments: Patient is struggling with self-doubt and identity; the destruction of the reality he created in his mind has triggered intense guilt, confusion, and feelings of inferiority. Schedule co-session with Sergeant Barnes: Monday (07/17/17), to share lists, foster connection. Exercise: practice reading list in mirror, imagine reading it to partner. Re-assign: pet therapy kittens at least two times prior to next session (clear definition of ‘to pet’ was explained to patient).

 

**Stress Kleptomaniac                                                              Saturday, July 15, 2017- 11 am**

Telling him what ‘to pet’ meant! Who the hell did Dr. Mayz think she was? No, who the hell did Dr. Mayz think _Steve_ was? Reading him the Webster’s definition off her computer like he was in grade school! How much was Tony paying this lady?

Steve stomped through the door, muttering under his breath, and was met with a very amused, “You okay over there, kitty cat?”

“Unless you’re about to give me another blow job, please don’t call me a kitty cat.”

Bucky laughed outright, hopping out of the chair in his ‘Mac & Cheese Is My Therapy’ t-shirt (the brown box had arrived priority this morning) and the ridiculous Hawkeye shorts that he’d been insisting on wearing every chance he got. After that day at the trampoline park, Steve had stuffed them behind the dryer; and yet, this morning they’d miraculously reappeared.

Poking the middle of Steve’s chest, Bucky drawled, “Stevie, are you stressed, sweetheart?”

“She yelled at me for not petting the rats right!”

“Steve, _I_ yelled at you for not petting the kittens right too.”

Squeezing his fists even tighter, Steve stood up as tall as he could before admitting, “I stole her worry stones.”

“Bucky,” Dr. Mayz called, “it’s time for our session.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Dr. Mayz came up behind Steve’s left shoulder, and he tried to slide the worry stones into his pocket covertly, holding Bucky’s gaze as he moved his hand slowly, slowly. It might have even worked if he hadn’t totally forgotten that Bucky had shoved a fork into the right pocket, for whatever logical reason a person would have to _violently_ shove a fork into the pocket of a pair of _borrowed_ shorts. The hole that Bucky had made was less like a hole and more like the complete and utter destruction of the pocket in it’s entirety. Two stolen worry stones went into the pocket, two stolen worry stones fell out of the bottom of the pocket; plunking onto the carpet, the stones had the decency to roll to a stop directly in front of Dr. Mayz’s practical, beige pumps.

Shit.

Bucky snorted and gave Steve’s shoulder a few good pats. “I can’t help you out of this one, dipshit.”

“Sergeant Barnes, it’s five after eleven, and I don’t have time…”

“We’re bonding here,” Bucky interrupted. “Don’t you see that me and my man are having some positive interaction regarding Steve’s _hilarious_ case of kleptomania? I’d think that you’d want to promote any kind of healthy dialogue between the two of us.” The challenge in his eye was pushing past whimsical and speeding right into snarky. Steve kinda liked it when Bucky got that devilish look in his eyes.

“I came in on a Saturday, Sergeant Barnes. I’d appreciate it if you were respectful of my time.”

Bucky took a step back and spread his palms wide, smirking as he said, “Oh, Steve, she’s saucy today.”

Damn right she was! Reading him definitions from the goddamn Webster’s page! Steve snatched up the worry stones and blatantly shoved them into his _other_ pocket. “I told you, Buck, she’s gonna nag at you about something.”

“I’m standing right here.”

“You sure are, Dr. M.” Bucky laughed, taking a step backwards. “Standing there giving me shit about _not_ coming in your office.” Bucky slowly took another step backwards, and Steve was gonna completely lose it. This level of assholery was only exhibited on very special occasions. Taking _another_ impossibly slow step backwards, Bucky looked right at poor Dr. Mayz and dragged out each syllable, “Am... I... giving... you... anxiety?”

“Sergeant Barnes…”

Bucky raised his foot to take another step, winking at Steve, then unleashed the most asshole sentence of all. “Does Steve need to hand you one of the worry stones that he stole? I... hear... they... help...”

“Sergeant Barnes!”

 

**This Shit is Stupid                                                             Saturday, July 15, 2017- 11:10 am**

07/15/2017 (Saturday) 11 am

Individual Therapy Session: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes

Preferred Name: Bucky

 

00:9:46 [Excerpt from Recorded Material]

 _Dr. Mayz:_ I see that your hair is still in the braid that Steve mentioned in his session.

 _Bucky:_ Yeah, but I fucked it up when I slept on it, and Steve got a little rough last night.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Steve was abusive to you!?

 _Bucky:_ No! The braid turned him on! He kept saying that I looked like the Whore of Spring; a real Renaissance man. Art makes Steve horny. He messed it up when he grabbed my head and pulled me down on his co…

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Sergeant Barnes! Please.

 _Bucky:_ You asked.

          [Audio Gap]

 _Dr. Mayz:_ You know what? Let’s use this. I’d like to discuss your use of sexual innuendo and activity to avoid dealing with deeper issues.

 _Bucky:_ What the fuck are you talking about? I can’t make love to my partner now? We’re having a ‘Most Powerful Power Bottom in the Universe’ competition, and _Steve’s_ the one who keeps climbing on _my_ dick! He’s really competitive, and he keeps wearing these underwear that I bought him. His ass looks so damn…

 _Dr. Mayz:_ You’re doing it again.

 _Bucky:_ Talking about Steve’s ass? I know. I can’t help it. You wanna put that in your notes? Ass addiction?

          [Audio Gap]

 _Dr. Mayz:_ That’s not appropriate, and I think...

          [Audio Gap]

 _Dr. Mayz:_ You know what? Let’s just move on. Did you bring your list of things that you appreciate about Steve?

 _Bucky:_ Well, yes, I did. Allow me to read it to you! I gave it a catchy little title just for you, Dr. Mayz.

 _(therapist note: see copy- addendum_ _8C)_

 

This shit is stupid 

Written just for the lovely Dr. Mayz  
By The Lord of the Cats

 

Steve is really sappy and does deep shit like the wall painting thing.

Steve has a really nice ass. (I know you’ve looked, Dr. Mayz. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me...unless I tell Clint.)

Disclosure: I told Clint.

Steve stands up for what he believes in, even when it’s the most annoying, stupid ass, bullshit thing.

Steve is good in bed. Probably not an appropriate thing to include on this list, but I thought it should be on an official record somewhere.

Steve saved me, even when I didn’t want to be saved.

Steve is a little shit in a really big body. Not sure if I appreciate it when he’s being a little shit to _me_ though. So, I guess I like it when Steve is a little shit to _other_ people.

I thought about the ‘good in bed’ thing some more. I want you to make a file that says: ‘Captain America is a great lover’. Can you put it in the Pentagon? Can you show it to General Ross first? Maybe ‘accidentally’ attach it to an e-mail? Or do the ‘reply all’ thing? Everyone makes that mistake! Tell me when you’re gonna do it though, so I can have FRIDAY pull surveillance of his face when he sees it!

Steve loves me, even though I’m not lovable.

I’ve always loved his smile.

Seriously, do the file thing.

The End

PS: Cats Rule!

 

00:17:03 [End Excerpt from Recorded Material]

 

Therapist Notes: see four page addendum 1C (extensive session notes needed). Exercise: practice reading list in mirror, imagine reading it to partner. Therapist decision to not ask patient for revision of his list; although over half his entries were symptomatic of sexual deflection. Goal for honesty in his expression to his partner takes precedence at this point in therapy. Both patients should repeat exercise once progress has been made.

 

**Breathe Underwater                                                            Saturday, July 15, 2017- 3:30 pm**

Steve swam slowly underwater from the deep end of the pool to the shallower side where Bucky was casually leaning back against the wall. It didn’t matter that the chlorine was stinging Steve’s eyes; it was worth it to keep them wide open and take his sweet time moving forward in the water, the bubbles rising all around him as he used his arms to push himself past the colorful mosaic on the bottom, because the view was fantastic.

After therapy, Steve had finally, under mild duress, completed Bucky’s Dare to kiss a rat. Bucky had held up both of Steve’s gross options, one perched on each palm, as they’d sat facing one another on the couch. Looking back and forth between each weird little face, one black and one white, Steve had really struggled with the decision. He kept getting visions of the giant rats that scurried along the edges of the subway stations in the city, wiggling their pointy noses with their scraggly whiskers as they snatched half empty bags of Cheetos off the platforms. They were disgusting. The white rat had looked suspiciously like it was contemplating trying to touch Steve’s nose with its shit paw again; its green eyes opened a little too wide as the foot had lifted the tiniest bit off of Bucky’s metal hand. On Steve’s left, nodding its head like it had been about to doze off and tumble off of Bucky’s hand, had been option number two. The thing had tried to focus its crossed eyes on Steve when it had jerked its little rat head up, but had only succeeded in looking at its own nose. Creepy.

Decision made, Steve had hesitantly pointed at the white one. Bucky had nodded, obviously trying to hold back his unsympathetic laughter, and had carefully set the sleepy, black rat on the back of the couch before raising the white one in the air like they were in the middle of the fucking ‘Lion King’ or something. Its fat little pink and white belly had been pooched out, and its scraggly legs and unsanitary shit feet had been dangling down. Steve in no way had wanted to kiss the thing, but when it had started making tiny peeping sounds, it had been...sort of cute. Sort of. Bucky had bounced it a little, making the poop feet sway, and had said, ‘C’mon, baby. You know you wanna.’ Counting to three and closing his eyes, Steve had leaned forward and kissed the albino sewer rodent right on its yucky pick nose.

It had felt a little wet, a little cold, but not intrinsically _bad_. He was counting it as a win. The kiss Dare completed, Steve had gotten his homework out of the way so Dr. Mayz would get off his fucking back; softly stroking each gutter rat up to Webster’s standard definition of ‘to pet’ which had been so precisely and annoyingly explained to him that morning.

Definition of ‘to pet’

petted; petting

Transitive verb

  1. To treat as a pet: to stroke in a gentle or loving manner
  2. To treat with unusual kindness and consideration



Intransitive verb

  1. To engage in amorous embracing, caressing, and kissing



He’d followed the definition precisely and it had felt...okay. But the thing that had felt even better had been the way that Bucky had smiled at him when Steve’s fingers made first contact. Bucky hadn’t said a word, just smiled that gorgeous grin, which had inspired Steve to lean forward and practice the intransitive verb form of ‘pet’. This time it had been Steve’s turn to say ‘Meow’.

After they’d endured the very confusing meeting about Ross, which had involved designated rendezvous points, code words, Tony burping a lot, everyone except Natasha looking completely lost, and the distribution of t-shirts that had ‘Avenger’ written in giant white letters that were crossed out with a big red X, and below that, in little letters, they said, ‘I do what I want!’. Everyone had adopted an appropriate look of disappointment except Bucky, who’d immediately held it up to his chest and had said, ‘Can I wear this all the time?’ The whole ‘meeting’ had ended with only four things made somewhat clear: They were in big trouble. Ross was not sympathetic. Tony had made t-shirts. The codeword for _something_ was ‘Goonies’.

The stress of that baffling hour had led to Steve’s next Dare, which was his best idea yet. He could repeat this Dare over and over every single day, never tiring of the freedom they’d found running naked along the pool deck and cannonballing into the warm water. Bucky hadn’t even hesitated, the water inspiring nothing but joy as they’d splashed, and shoved, and kissed in some sort of skinny dipping paradise. Swimming toward Bucky in the clear blue water Steve couldn’t help but think about forever as he stretched out his hands to touch Bucky’s knees first. Maybe he was getting ahead of himself; thinking about how much fun they could have if they really took a trip to Mexico, imagining the two of them living somewhere else and arguing about properly assembling IKEA furniture…

Steve wrapped his hands around Bucky’s strong, sturdy, kneecaps before he dragged his spread fingers upwards along the fronts of Bucky’s muscular thighs.

Forever.

 

 

> _“No, Buck. You need to lift from the bottom. This couch is fucking heavy and we need your muscular thighs to push it up these stairs!”_
> 
> _“Whose idea was it to get a five story walk-up? We can afford a place with an elevator.”_
> 
> _“Buck, it was your idea. You said it was quaint! Now lift up the damn couch before I tackle you.”_

 

Steve squeezed as he moved higher, his thumbs eventually following the tendons of Bucky’s groin and pressing gently as he passed the soft skin around his cock. It was hard to keep going, to stop himself from sliding his lips around him...but Steve was running out of air.

Forever.

 

 

> _“Do you think we’re even gonna get old, Steve? I can’t keep ordering these cakes bigger and bigger every damn year.”_
> 
> _“We are getting old, and I told you there’s no reason to put all hundred and thirty-three candles on the cake.”_
> 
> _“It’s tradition. You don’t fuck with tradition. And you know what I meant. Are we ever gonna age?”_
> 
> _“I think I saw a grey hair in your beard yesterday.”_
> 
> _“Oh, sure you did, Stevie. Just like I saw you sneakin’ prune juice into your smoothie this morning.”_
> 
> _“Hey, Buck.”_
> 
> _“Hmm?”_
> 
> _“Do you think we’re ever gonna get old enough that you stop calling me Stevie?”_
> 
> _“You might still look like you’re thirty-five, but the stupidity of that question proves that you’re gettin’ senile. I’m always gonna call you Stevie, dipshit.”_

 

Surfacing, Steve followed Bucky’s adonis lines until he firmly squeezed his waist. God, it was almost too much to handle. Hope. Dreams. Goals. Steve rubbed his cheek up the center of Bucky’s chest, stopping to appreciate the way the water droplets were clinging to the curly brown hairs.

“We should only skinny dip from now on.” Bucky sighed happily, wrapping his hand around the back of Steve’s head and pressing his head harder against his chest.

Forever.

 

 

> _“Buck, do you want me to make you waffles for breakfast again?”_
> 
> _“Did you buy fresh raspberries at the farmer’s market?”_
> 
> _“Would I still be the perfect husband if I forgot?”_
> 
> _“I don’t need you to be perfect. I like you a little rough around the edges, Steve.”_
> 
> _“Good, ‘cause I totally forgot.”_

 

Steve moved his hands around to grip Bucky’s ass. “Mmm, you’re so right. Skinny dipping is mandatory from this moment forward.”

“Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Dr. Mayz thinks that I use sex to avoid talking about my real feelings.”

Steve stopped his hands, which had graduated to rubbing along Bucky’s crack, and quickly moved them back to his hips. “I’m sorry…”

“No, god no, Steve, I didn’t say that because I don’t want you to touch me right now, I’m just saying it because I think she’s right. I was thinking about it at the meeting about Ross earlier; about how serious this situation is, how fucked all of us might be, and, I don’t know...I just...when you dared me to go skinny dipping with you, it was just so shockingly easy for me to say ‘yes’ and fall into this with you, even when everyone else is so stressed out.”

Steve dropped his chin onto Bucky’s metal shoulder and watched the water droplets running down the seam on his back. Little beads of water crossing the lines of lighter skin where the scars were still visible. The sweetness of skinny dipping flowing innocently over the lashes Yegor Orlov had torn into Bucky’s back in that fucking silo, bumping across the tiny scars where the stitches had been sewn, and landing in clean water instead of the dark liquid that Bucky had almost died in. Steve blew softly on the droplets to make them fall faster as he remembered the way his paintbrush had pulled the blue line over each scar, stretching until the blue heart had covered the dark scar that sat just above curve of Bucky’s ass. When Steve had carefully slid inside of Bucky in the shower, he’d watched the blue paint flowing downwards over the point of connection, covering everything. Another droplet slid in a jagged line across the metal, and Steve knew that Bucky was right.

“I do it too,” Steve whispered.

“Yeah, we’re both really good at avoiding conversations about the things that really matter when we’re together.”

Pulling him into a real hug, Steve lined up his feet with the outside of Bucky’s, where the scar from the blowtorch was still a long purple line. He wrapped his arms around him as tightly as he could and gently kissed his cheek. Anything sexual had flowed into the water around them, leaving only the solidity of a hug. Hugs were an underappreciated comfort, and Steve vowed to hug Bucky more. Maybe to hug _everyone_ more.

Forever.

 

 

> _“You’re not painting my face to look like a skull, Steve. It’s like you’re tempting fate or something.”_
> 
> _“Bucky, we flew all the way to Mexico for this. I’m painting your face.”_
> 
> _“Okay, but you better make me look good, Steve. Think badass...but I do want you to do a pink rose on my forehead, ‘cause they’re pretty. But the rest...badass.”_

 

They stayed there for a long time, Steve trying to stop himself from thinking too far ahead, to exist in the present...even though he knew Bucky would love The Day of the Dead. He would. The amount of pressure was equal between them when Steve murmured, “I love you so much, Bucky.”

“Just the way I am?”

“Do not get that song stuck in my head again.” Steve laughed, but it was too late. Billy Joel was already pulling up his piano bench. “Yes, baby, just the way you are.”

Bucky rocked them a little in the water, a slow motion sway to music that only they could hear, whispering, “I love you too.”

The words...Steve felt dizzy with it, but there was something else that they needed to do...that Steve _wanted_ to do. Smoothing out Bucky’s wet hair, Steve said, “We need to help Tony figure this out.”

“You’re absolutely right, but I have an even better idea. We should send Tony back to bed and figure it out ourselves. He needs a break, Steve. A really big break. He’s not okay, and he needs _our_ help...and I’m not just talking about Ross.”

Steve nodded because that was all he could do right now. How could he have let a teammate, a _friend_ fall so far? The more Steve thought about it, maybe Tony wasn’t ever his friend...not in any meaningful way...but that was going to change, starting _now_. “You’re right. Absolutely right. Let’s go.” Steve gave Bucky one last squeeze and turned to jump out of the pool.

“Woah, there cowboy.” Bucky stopped him with one little touch. “I’m totally in agreement, but I’m gonna take a couple laps first. I need to burn off some of this sexual energy, because while my mind is being very mature and telling me to tone it down, my dick is completely ignoring Dr. Mayz and trying to convince me that she’s a quack and a fraud. I’m not gonna tell you to look down, but I can assure you that my cock has a very different idea right now.” Chuckling, he exclaimed, “I mean, jesus, Steve, look at you naked in this pool!”

Bucky slipped out from under his arms and dove forward into the water. Tony had told him to stay out of the pool, to take the shortest showers possible, but Bucky didn’t seem to be paying the arm any special attention. He hadn’t tried to scrub the paint out of the joints and seams, the pinky had begun twitching constantly some time last night, and there’d been a piece on the inner forearm that wouldn’t stop whirring on their way to Dr. Mayz’s office this morning. Bucky had groaned before he’d torn the thing right off and stuck it deep into a potted plant. In an attempt to practice honesty, while tempering down his extreme levels of overprotectiveness, Steve had said matter-of-factly, ‘I’m worried about your arm’, and Bucky, making an effort to follow Dr. Mayz’s instructions, had honestly responded, ‘Yeah, me too’. Neither of them had stopped to retrieve the piece.

Stretching his arms out along the edges, Steve enjoyed the sensation of the wet tiles sliding beneath his skin as he watched Bucky’s naked form gliding away from him underwater. The silver gleam of the arm looked so interesting moving under the brilliant blue, and Steve smiled, happy that Bucky was simply here and capable of making the molecules bend around his living, breathing form. After all of the struggling, the fighting, the horror, Steve really felt like they’d finally turned a corner; that Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers had really and truly found one another for the first time. Leaning his head back, Steve stared up at the edge of the main building. The white curve of the roofline seemed like it was glowing compared to the cobalt blue of the summer sky. Closing his eyes, Steve let himself _be_ for a few minutes; not defining himself, not even giving himself a name; just existing and enjoying the simplicity of cool water on a hot summer day with the man he loved…

The man he loved.

Steve’s heart dropped when he realized that he heard absolutely nothing...that the only sound was silence…

Snapping his head to the end of the pool, the surface of the water was calm, reflecting the empty sky like a mirror. He didn’t see him! He didn’t fucking see him!

Steve pushed off the wall and rose to his full height, heart racing with pure panic...and there, at the other end, he saw it...the glint of silver bouncing a single ray of sunlight up from the bottom of the pool. No...no no no no no…

He was underwater before it had even registered, pulling his arms against the pressure of the water as fast as he could to get to him...to reach him. Bucky was face down on the bottom, his body still seizing, his hair floating around him in distorted tendrils, and his metal arm twitching and bashing into the drain. His eyes were open, but when Steve looped his arms around his chest Bucky wasn’t there, just blank eyes staring back at Steve as his face jerked in the water.

Forever.

Steve pushed off the bottom hard enough that they exploded out of the water, and Steve had Bucky up and out of the pool with no real memory of getting him there.

“FRIDAY!” Steve screamed. “Help! Medical! Now!”

Dammit! What the hell was he supposed to do!?...okay...okay...stop. Roll him. Steve turned Bucky to his side, desperately trying to keep his head from hitting the tile, and...he didn’t know what to do...jesus, what the hell was he supposed to do! “FRIDAY!”

“ETA one minute.”

Bucky’s body lurched one last time, then came to a stop. His head went limp in Steve’s hands and his eyes rolled backwards into his head...no...no. Oh my god, he was turning blue. Steve looked at his chest and there was no rise and fall. Nothing. He wasn’t breathing! He wasn’t… “He’s not breathing!”

“Two one-second rescue breaths. Captain, you need to breathe for him.”

The instant that Steve rolled him onto his back again, then sealed his lips over Bucky’s to try to blow the life back into him, Steve knew...he was stuck in some sort of purgatory where the annihilation of forever was his punishment and where he was destined to let Bucky fall every single time...

“What the hell!?” Tony ran up behind him, sliding to his knees on the other side of Bucky. While Steve gave Bucky another breath, Tony pushed two fingers against his neck. His eyes told Steve everything that he needed to know when Tony yelled, “FRIDAY!?”

“Twenty seconds, boss! My scan’s detecting that you need to start chest compressions now.”

Tony started pumping Bucky’s chest and water started pouring out the sides of his mouth. “Steve, you should do this. You’re stronger than me...”

Bucky’s eyes were pink and his lips were blue. Steve slid his hand back under Bucky’s neck to tip his head backwards, muttering, “No, I’m not.”

“Goddammit!” Tony pushed harder and vomit started pouring out of Bucky’s mouth. “Fuck! Roll him. Watch his neck!”

Steve used his fingers to swipe the puke away. They’d eaten linguini with chicken and broccoli for lunch. Maybe that would be Bucky’s last meal. He’d told Steve that they should have ordered pizza instead...

“Roll him back!” Tony started pumping again, hard enough to break Bucky, barely healed ribs snapping in two, adding to the ever expanding list of things that were already broken beyond repair. “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Steve, breathe!”

Covering Bucky’s lips with his own, Steve pushed as much oxygen into the man he loved as he possibly could, and everything flashed before his eyes. A tiny body unable to follow Bucky to war. A bigger body too late to stop the change. A hand unable to make the catch. Lungs unable to turn Bucky’s skin back to warm summertime tan. Just as Steve exhaled the last of what he had to give, the medical team arrived.

Steve’s hands and feet threatened to slip out from beneath him as he scrambled backwards to allow the bodies, armed with medical kits filled with a million things that Steve couldn’t supply, to swarm around Bucky.

They moved Bucky onto a backboard and lifted him out of the puddle of water, straining to get him to a dry spot on the wooden deck. Steve heard the sounds of someone yelling orders about drying him off, suctioning his airway, hypoxia, and the whine of the defibrillator coming to life, but he could only stare at the Bucky shaped wet spot reflecting off the white tiles in the hot July sun. It would evaporate soon.

“Shave for the pad and pull that arm up as far as possible. Go two inches below the seam.”

The seam still wasn’t healed. Why were people always taking away his chest hair?

“Hold compressions... clear!”

The sound of the shock hitting sent Steve to a place where Bucky was flipped upside-down in the silo as the electricity arched around him.

Was the shock burning Bucky’s skin this time?

The heat of a beautiful day lifting the impression one molecule at a time…

“Get that access. Tracey, push 1mg EPI as soon as he’s in. Get the laryngeal mask ready. Got it? Okay. Push it now. Hold compressions...clear!”

The arm thumped hard onto the wood in unison with the second shock. Seconds later the sound of metal wheels rolled across the deck.

Probably, the edges would disappear first; the image shrinking inwards until Bucky’s shape had no extremities, only the core…

“Airway in? Three, two, one, lift! Mark, climb on.”

The wheels reversed, vibrating as they hit each crack, and when Steve looked up through the haze of evaporating water, the biggest guy was straddling Bucky’s chest on the gurney and desperately pumping as they ran through the sliding glass doors. Steve wondered if the rest of Bucky’s ribs were breaking under his hands. The arm had fallen off the side and was bouncing with every bump…the pinky wasn’t twitching anymore...

 

**Fifteen Minutes                                                                    Saturday, July 15, 2017- 1:55 pm**

Steve was sitting in a puddle. The sky was still blue. The sun was still hot. The grass was still green. It was still Saturday. He was sitting in a puddle.

“Steve…” Tony sat down next to him, putting his dress slacks in the puddle. His shoes were shiny. His knees were already wet. His glasses had a red tint. Tony was sitting in a puddle.

Steve couldn’t move. For the first time, when it came to saving Bucky, Steve couldn’t make himself move…

A hand touched his shoulder. Tony’s wrist had a silver watch. It reflected the sun, but it wasn’t underwater. The watch was still ticking. “Steve, what the hell happened?”

Steve knew the answer to that question. He’d answered it before. “He seized in the water, while I was staring at the fucking sky.”

“They’re gonna get him back, Steve. We have the best medical…”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

The puddle around Steve was growing. The water where Bucky had been was almost gone. Maybe he would turn into rain?

Tony started unbuttoning his burgundy dress shirt, releasing each round button from its place, and, when he slid it off of his shoulders, Steve saw the new arc reactor. It was silver too. He had no idea when it had been put back into Tony’s chest.

The burgundy shirt was carefully placed over Steve’s lap. “Here, cover up. C’mon, Steve. I’ll go with you.”

Steve had forgotten that he was naked; that fifteen minutes earlier he’d been pressing his naked skin against Bucky’s and feeling hopeful for their future.

Fifteen minutes...

The sky was still blue. The sun was still hot. The grass was still green. It was still Saturday. He was still sitting in a puddle. Nothing had changed except for the tiny new cloud that had formed in the sky above his head. Glancing at the spot on the tiles, Bucky’s water was gone...

 

**The Quiet                                                                                     Sunday, July 16, 2017- 9 am**

07/16/2017 (Sunday) 9 am

Individual Therapy Session: Captain Steven Grant Rogers

Preferred Name: Steve

Note: emergency session post trauma, acute concern of self-harm/suicidal thoughts as indicated by Mr. Tony Stark via conference call.

 

00:02:14 [Excerpt from Recorded Material]

           _(therapist note: patient seems quiet, withdrawn, difficulty making eye contact, appearance disheveled compared to norm, unshaven)_

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Steve, do you know why we’ve asked you to come in to meet with me this morning?

 _Steve:_ Because I almost killed my soulmate again.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ What happened yesterday was not your fault. It was a medical emergency and an accident. I’d like to reassure you of that, Steve. But it’s important for us to explore why you feel that way.

 _Steve:_ I’ve gotten so used to him being here again. I was staring at his pillow last night and there were five of his hairs stuck to it. They were curling up in funny little brown loops on the blue pillowcase. I’ve gotten so used to those long hairs getting stuck in my brush and clogging up the drain. Did you know that when I’m the big spoon, his hair always gets in my mouth and tickles my nose?

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Were you able to sleep?

 _Steve:_ I kept seeing him, naked and dripping wet, his wet hair clinging to his face as he slowly put his head on his pillow next to me. His skin looked as blue as the pillowcase, but the whites of his eyes were pink.

 _Dr. Mayz:_ This was a dream?

 _Steve:_ No. I could feel the water creeping over to my side of the bed, and I wondered if my skin had been that color when I was frozen in the ice. Maybe when I crashed the plane, I froze too fast to turn blue?

 _Dr. Mayz:_ Steven, your friends are very concerned about you, as am I. I need to ask you to be completely honest with me right now. Are you thinking about hurting yourself?

 _Steve:_ The kittens both curled up on Bucky’s pillow and stared at me. It was strange to touch their soft fur and listen to them purr. For a little while, it made me think that Bucky was next to me and the kittens were curled up in his soft brown hair. For a little while, I was able to sleep.

00:07:50 [End Excerpt from Recorded Material]

  
Therapist Notes: Recommending that patient is not left alone for any period of time, suicide risk/24 hour watch. Implementing full surveillance support from Stark AI, FRIDAY. Calling in secondary Psychiatric support from Dr. Thomas Carson, M.D. (specialist in Trauma and PTSD)

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find Lorien/drjezdzany here
> 
> [Drjezdzany](http://drjezdzany.tumblr.com/tagged/my-art/)
> 
>  
> 
> Find lucidnancyboy/Jessie Lucid Art here 
> 
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/)  
> [Tumblr](https://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thanks for reading our story so far! We'd love to hear what you think and get into deep philosophical discussions about the dynamics of Stucky. lol. Hugs to everyone!
> 
> Chapter Four Mood Music:
> 
> Audioslave- "I am the Highway"  
> Sense Field- "Lies"  
> Framing Hanley- "Lollipop"  
> Frank Ocean- "Thinking About You"  
> Billy Joel- "Just the Way You Are"  
> Placebo- "Breathe Underwater" (slow)


	5. Toes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for joining us for another episode of 'The Self-Sacrificial Steve & Bucky Show'! It means so much to share this story and artwork with you, and we hope that you've enjoyed the ride, despite the ups and downs along the way. Rumor has it that Episode Three might just take place pre-war. :)
> 
> Music is crucial to the creation of this story, and lucidnancyboy has included the full playlist in the end notes if you happen to be a 'mood music' person too. You can also find the songs here on [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLbGnycMfOsiCQkT2OKUZFlpvhm8PRw5MA) .
> 
> Hugs to you all!

                                  

 

**Sunflowers Are Great Allies                                               Thursday July 20, 2017- 2:30 pm**

“Why are we hiding in the middle of the sunflowers, Steve?” Bucky grabbed hold of two of the huge stalks and shook them...they were about the thickness of an average _piss_ _weasel_...no...he couldn’t do it. Oh my god. _Piss weasel! Piss weasel?_ He started laughing so hard that he was literally watering the flowers with his tears; partially due to the joke, but mostly due to his broken ribs. Ouch!

“Stop shaking those! FRIDAY still has me under surveillance!” Steve slapped at Bucky’s knees like a three year old. “Shhh! Stop it! Seriously, Bucky! What the hell are you laughing about anyway?”

“Mayo shooting hotdog guns.”

Steve did the squinty thing and wrapped his hands around the stalks, just above Bucky’s, which was definitely a miscalculation. “She’s gonna see them moving! And stop with the dick jokes. They’re not funny anymore.”

Biting his lip, Bucky slid his hands up and down, up and down, just enough to get the sunflowers a little revved up, because it _was_ funny...it was _sooo_ damn funny. “C’mon, Stevie. I know you like how these thick sunflower _thunder swords_ feel in your fists.”

Jerking his hands away like the _thunder swords_ had blown their loads, Steve fell back on his butt in the dirt, rolling his eyes and letting out a big old sigh. “Dr. Carter says that I should tell you if you’re making jokes instead of talking to me.”

“Like I’m not already aware that _thunder swords_ was a funny thing to say?”

“No, fucker. I think we’re both very aware that _Captain Winky_ is hilarious.”

“Good one.” Bucky was pissed he hadn’t thought of that one himself, and he really wanted to throw another dick joke Steve’s way, but deep down... _very, very, very deep down_ ...he knew that Steve was totally right. So Bucky begrudgingly tucked _lance of love_ , _atomic turtle_ , and _weapon of ass destruction_ safely in his back pocket for later use. Steve was staring at him, lookin’ all huffy, which was greatly enhanced by the fact that he hadn’t shaved in a week. In all their time together, Bucky had never seen Steve with more than a couple days worth of stubble. Assessment? He liked it.

Bucky blew out a big enough breath to make his lips vibrate. “I’m one hundred percent positive that FRIDAY can still see you, even sitting on your ass in the dirt behind unnaturally tall flowers.” Letting go of the sunflower _stalks_ (three cheers for occasional maturity), Bucky carefully touched Steve’s furry chin. “Wait, is that why you’re growing this sexy beard? Are you trying to throw FRIDAY off your trail?” Bucky pinched him a little, like an Italian Grandmother grabs her thirty-two-year-old grandson’s chin and says, ‘You’re gettin’ too skinny, sonny. Come, I made you cheese ravioli’. He didn’t wanna let go... pinching Steve’s furry chin was fun! “Well, Stevie, I’m sorry to inform you that you’re not gonna fool the most sophisticated AI in the known universe with a thick, gorgeous, beard.”

“You’re probably right.” Steve nipped at Bucky’s fingers like a wee little dog…

                _...don’t lemme catch you with your sticky fingers in that offering plate again, or I’m gonna tell Father Flannagan!..._

The memories of that little shit were somehow starting to settle in with the rest; there was less of a divide, more cohesion of the entire timeline in Bucky’s messed up brain. Dr. Mayz had given it a name...a big scary name called Dissociative Identity Disorder...but maybe knowing the name of the beast was making Bucky feel better? He wasn’t sure yet. He could only say that remembering little Stevie Rogers in a sweaty dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, snapping and snarling at an altar boy for pocketing a few coins, didn’t bother him anymore.

Bucky took Steve’s hands and rested them on the tops of his folded knees, setting all jokes aside.

“Steve, I’m _glad_ FRIDAY’s still watching you. You lose your goddamn mind every time that something happens to me.”

“Dr. Carson’s helping me figure out why that happens, and he’s teaching me ways to deal with things better.” Steve’s eyes betrayed him, distantly staring down the long row of sunflowers over Bucky’s shoulder.

“Truth.”

Slowly refocusing on Bucky’s eyes, Steve squeezed his hands hard enough that it hurt. Well, it hurt _three_ of the metal fingers anyway. After Bucky’d almost died... _again_...he’d lost all feeling and control of the pinky and the ring finger. The dead digits were number one and two on the very long list of additional things that were now wrong with him ‘post drowning’. Seriously, Dr. Cho had gone over the list with Bucky in the hospital, and there had been a wonderful section titled ‘post cryo-freeze’, a fun little one labeled ‘post electrocution’, and, last but not least, the very catchy ‘post drowning’. Twenty minutes later, after the labels had triggered a very dramatic and snot filled episode of PTSD, Dr. Cho had changed the categories to the less traumatic ‘A’, ‘B’, and ‘C’. Good times.

But that hadn’t been the worst moment. No, that had reared its nasty head one day ‘post skinny-dipping disaster’ after Clint had finally managed to drag Steve out of the medical wing to eat some lunch. Bucky had sat alone in another generic hospital room, in another generic hospital bed, wearing another generic hospital gown, and had stared helplessly at the dead ring finger on the left hand; wondering if the _hypothetical_ dreams contained within the little silver box had died right along with it.

Surrounded by a picture perfect scene of sunflowers and sunshine, Steve was stalling by kicking at the dirt with his sneaker, digging little holes next to Bucky’s thighs. Bucky didn’t push him, waiting patiently between the little dirt mounds until he finally answered the question. “The truth is, that no matter what Dr. Carter teaches me, I don’t think I’ll make it if I lose you again.”

Bucky let that sentence sit there between them as the breeze bent the flowers towards the east, because he knew it was the truth. The time for lying was over.

Readjusting Steve’s hands into less of a death grip and more of a supportive squeeze, Bucky decided to go all in. “Remember when we were kids...that time in April of ‘34 when you caught pneumonia for what seemed like the tenth time that year? Do you know when I’m talking about?”

Steve nodded, looking younger somehow.

“Good.” Bucky had butterflies in his stomach as he continued, speaking quietly but firmly as he rubbed their thumbs together. “In the middle of the third night, I curled up behind you on the bed and listened to you breathing, counting every single rattling breath and wondering what number would be your last. You paused at one-thousand-eighteen...sucking in the tiniest bit of air... and then there was nothing. I thought for sure that you were gone. And, for that split second, Stevie, I didn’t think that I could make it if I’d lost you either.”

Not just younger...Bucky could see Stevie Rogers sitting right in front of him, wrapped in a threadbare sheet with purple circles under his eyes, dwarfed by the towering sunflowers.

Bucky had to take a minute to allow the two Steve’s to settle back together in his head, before finishing. “But then you jerked and breathed in, a horrible thick noise, and I was so fucking relieved. God, I don’t even know how to explain it. I pressed my ear against your back and kept counting for the entire night and well into the morning. When you still hadn’t opened your eyes by lunchtime, I crawled out of the damp sheets and went to Gaspar Milazzo to take him up on his offer. I wasn’t ready for the numbers to stop, you know? I would have done anything to keep you breathing, Stevie.”

“Bucky…”

“I still do it, Steve.” The tears were spilling down Bucky’s cheeks, but Steve only scooched closer in the dirt. “Late at night, I still count. James Buchanan Barnes presses his smooth, unblemished skin against your back and listens for signs of the telltale crackle, counting every clear breath and waiting for the one that doesn’t sound quite right. The Soldier counts too. He keeps track of the time by calculating the average number of breaths for the weight and size of Captain Steven Grant Rogers at rest. And Bucky...and _I..._ I find myself doing it more and more. My numbers are starting to overlap with the others which means I find myself counting constantly.

“But the hard ass truth is this: we’re both gonna come to an end. _Everyone_ does. And the two of us are getting way more chances to inhale and exhale the air on this big spinning ball than anyone else we know. Well...except Natalia.”

Steve stated it plainly, no question. “She has the serum.”

“Yeah.” Bucky nodded and took a deep breath, ignoring the pain in his ribcage. “She has the serum.”

A big black ant crawled onto Bucky’s shin, and Steve lovingly swept it back into the dirt. They watched it crawl away together, the two of them offering the creature a reprieve from pinching fingers and stomping boots...giving the ant what they needed to give one another. “I want you to know that The Soldier loved Natalia in his own way. She was kind enough to put night blooming jasmine into his hair, and she made him feel almost human sometimes. Natasha choosing to call me ‘medvezhonok’ after what I did to her, what I took from her, is a gift that I’m not sure I deserve.”

“You _are_ a teddy bear, Buck. Even holding the biggest guns or the sharpest knives, you’ve always been soft in the middle.” Steve gave him a sad smile and whispered, “When they wheeled you away from the pool...when I saw the color of your skin...I told Tony that I couldn’t do this anymore...that I can’t... I can’t keep repeating the same thing over and over…”

“Everything ends,” Bucky interrupted. “You and I have to get that through our stupid thick skulls. Listen carefully, Steve. I mean it.” Making sure that Steve was looking him right in the eye, Bucky said, “I can keep right on counting to infinity, and you can keep right on worrying until you shrivel up like a prune, but none of that’s gonna do shit to change the fact that we, at some point, _are_ going to end. And, unless the next wave of Space Invaders wipes us both out in one fell swoop, it isn’t gonna be at the same fucking time.”

Bucky stretched out his legs so they were bracketing Steve’s hips and tugged his hands away. “This surgery, Steve. It’s no joke. It’s a full replacement of _everything_ and lots can go wrong. I think the chances of something going wrong are actually greater than the chances of anything going right. And, if it does go sideways, I don’t want you falling off the edge again. But I’m not gonna lie to myself and pretend that I’m not scared shitless that you just aren’t capable of coping! But _I_ _really want you to learn to fucking cope_ , Steve, because I love you so goddamn much! If _my_ number stops in an hour, it doesn’t mean that _yours_ has to stop too!”

The words washed over Steve, and Bucky immediately saw their effect...the relaxation of Steve’s tight shoulders, the slackness in his jaw, the peaceful calm in his eyes. Steve nodded and sent a sheepish smile Bucky’s way, before murmuring, “I’m glad we can talk about this.”

Bucky tilted his head, and ran the last few minutes back in his head. The total words Steve had spoken added up to about ten... “But I’m the one doing all the talking.”

“Well, um...let me rephrase that.” Steve sniffed and gave it another shot. “It’s good to know that you understand. Just knowing that you get it...um...I don’t know how to put this into words.”

Steve maneuvered their legs, sliding his underneath Bucky’s and dragging him a little closer, _definitely_ getting dirt stains on his shorts. But Steve didn’t finish his thought right away...instead deciding that Bucky still wasn’t close enough. It wasn’t until he’d shifted things around enough to get Bucky fully into his lap that Steve whispered, “I don’t know who I am anymore, baby. I’m lost. I’m fucked up. I’m clinically depressed. But somehow, just knowing that you understand...it makes me feel hopeful, even though I’m petrified of that word.”

Now it was Bucky’s turn to be quiet.

Two giant men, wrapped around one another like soft pretzels in the middle of a patch of sunflowers, deciding if ‘hope’ was allowed. Bucky planted a mushy kiss on Steve’s cheek then rubbed his nose against the whiskers. “I _hope_ you keep the beard.”

A mushy kiss was given right back to him. “I’m keeping the beard.”

“See, when it comes to hope, we’ve just gotta start small.” Bucky smiled at Beardy Steve.

“Did Dr. Cho confirm the date this morning?”

Bucky’s stomach sank. “Yeah. The doctors from Wakanda are flying in Monday, Tony’s working on the redesign with Lang, Dr. Ncapayi, and his team. Helen thinks it’s gonna take them at least a few weeks, maybe a month, to get everything set up and ready to go.”

“One month.”

“Yep. Roughly five-hundred-thirty-four-thousand breaths. Thirty days not being able to make the ‘ok’ sign with this fucking hand.”

“Thirty days.”

“The best thirty days of our lives if we play our cards right. Starting with our Karaoke extravaganza this evening.” Steve was still giving him the big sad eyes, so Bucky had to break out the real talk. “Here it comes, Steve. I’m about to get so fucking deep on you right now. You are in no way prepared for the level of maturity and mind blowing insight that I’m about to drop on you. Here it comes: I’m done worrying about the past. _Done._ If my brain wants to amuse itself with home movies of our scrappy teenage adventures once in awhile? Cool. If it’s feeling a little more violent and decides to dive into the horror genre, playing a clip from the assassination of John F. Kennedy? Well, I’m not a huge fan...but that’s cool too. If this arm fries the rest of my nervous system before they can get the thing off of me? Yes, that would suck. But I’m not gonna waste another second of my time...that I _could_ be spending with the beautiful man right in front of me in this sickeningly romantic garden location...worrying about it. You shouldn’t either.”

“Okay.”

That was Steve’s response to the best paragraph that Bucky had ever strung together? His own version of a rousing Captain America speech, and all he got was, ‘Okay’? “Steve, can you give me a little more?”

“I’ll try.”

That was better.

“Baby, that’s all I’m asking for.” Bucky kissed him, soft and sweet, just the tiniest bit of tongue and the slightest pressure on Steve’s chin. The beard scratching Bucky’s cheeks was something wonderful. On the spot assessment of beard burn: _fucking_ _delightful_.

Steve nipped at Bucky’s bottom lip then murmured, “Are you sure you want to go out tonight? We could just stay home and play with the kittens. They really like that new fishing rod thing I bought them, and I still have that bag of catnip we haven’t tried yet. It’s supposed to make them go crazy.”

“Yeah, I know it’ll be hard for you to leave your new best friends and the _three_ bags of goodies that you bought them at PetSmart, but I think Sam was very wise to Dare us to do Karaoke. Plus, I’ve been practicing. But right now I wanna lay my head in your lap amongst these magnificent sunflowers. Scooch back.”

“No, you’re gonna mess up your braid if you do that. Sam worked really hard on this one.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I like it. The way it pulls your hair towards the crown of your head on top and back on the sides, I think it’s really beautiful and…”

Suddenly, the alarm started blaring, with FRIDAY’s voice repeating, “Code Goonie, Code Goonie”. Bucky still had no idea why Tony was calling it that. Yeah, Bucky’d seen the fucking movie, but, as far as he knew, they were not going on a mission for booty...hold up...even though he was running through the sunflowers in a situation that was clearly very serious, Bucky had to laugh at that one...because he was _always_ on a mission for _Steve’s booty_.

Steve took out at at least twenty sunflowers with his overly-enthusiastic Captain America running style, while Bucky simply ran _in between_ the rows as they took the shortest path to Tony’s workshop. The workshop was the designated rendezvous point for ‘Goonie Team Data’, whatever the fuck that meant. ‘Goonie Team Mikey’ was set to meet Team Leader Natasha (codename: Mikey) and ‘fly off into the sunset in the Quinjet’ (codename: pirate ship). Mikey was to remember her asthma inhaler and then pilot Sam (codename: Stef), Scott (codename: Andy), and Wanda (codename: Brand) to meet Vision (codename: Whiny Android) at a location Tony would only describe as ‘Whiny Android Camp’. Rhodes and Clint, as the only non-treasonous members of ‘Team We Do What We Want!’, had been charged with holding down the fort and had sadly received no code names. Plus, Clint had to stay behind on kitten duty, which was the most important job of all.

Since he and Steve had gotten sidetracked by Bucky’s dramatic Saturday afternoon drowning, they hadn’t helped Tony come up with the plan at all, meaning that they couldn’t say shit about the lack of detail, the complete lack of detail, or the fact that they had _absolutely no fucking details_ about ‘Code Goonie’. The only information provided had been that Bucky’s codename was ‘Mouth’, Steve’s was ‘Chunk’, and they were supposed to run very fast to the lab _without breaking anything_ if the alarm went off. If you didn’t count the complete annihilation of an entire row of sunflowers and the fifty feet of stomped cucumbers and tomatoes plants, they were doing pretty good so far.

As Bucky rounded the corner of the main building, with Steve right behind him, the sound of the Quinjet...sorry...the sound of the ‘Pirate Ship’ taking off exploded overhead, and Bucky was once again impressed with Natasha’s efficiency. Four minutes from alarm to take-off. Fucking impressive. Bucky slammed open the exterior door and caught a glimpse of the motorcade heading for the gate, an armored truck right in front prepared to ram it if necessary. Bad move. Tony Stark had designed that gate, and if Ross thought a tough little truck had even the _slightest_ chance of breaking through it, the man was more demented than they all thought. But alas, Tony was sick of fixing shit, and even though their truck would probably only leave a wee little dent, Bucky caught a glimpse of the gate opening as he ducked inside.

They’d made it to the lab in under five minutes, and Tony was already there pointing to something around the corner. “C’mon, c’mon, Mouth, Chunk, let’s go! I don’t feel like talking about politics and treason any more today. Ross can make another appointment that I’ll skip out on... like a _civilized_ politician should...instead of this blaze of glory shit. Seriously, we’re the Avengers! Or the ex-Avengers! What’s he expecting to happen? A white flag? My white underwear hoisted up on a broomstick? Whatever, I’m over it. Suit up!”

FRIDAY was still repeating ‘Code Goonie’, which wasn’t funny to begin with, and now that it was past the five minute mark it had crossed over into the ‘very fucking annoying’ category. She had to stop, like _now_ , so Bucky yelled, “FRIDAY! We’ve got it!”

The alarm quit just as Steve screamed, “Suit up in what?” Comedy gold.

Tony laughed, snapping his fingers and double pointing across the workshop as he grinned from ear to ear. “Those!”

Whipping his head around towards the alcove in the back of the lab, Bucky saw...no...his eyes had to be playing tricks on him...another ‘post drowning’ symptom or something...because there was no way in hell that he was really looking at three Iron Man suits, two of them way bigger than Tony’s new Mark 47. They were both shiny and black, with little stripes of blue accentuating the curves, and holy shit...they looked fucking badass! Bucky’s jaw dropped to the floor and no words would come out. None. What were words? Who knew?

Steve thankfully retained the ability to communicate amongst the glorious spectacle of black and blue metal, scoffing, “Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m not kidding! It’s Christmas in July! Sorry, I didn’t have time to wrap them.” Tony moved into his armor which was standing between the best fucking Christmas gifts that little Bucky Barnes had ever seen! This was so much better than the Bugatti! Stretching out his arms, Tony snapped, “What!? Why are you looking at me like that, Steve? It’s gonna be fun! Way more fun than dealing with the overly enthusiastic special forces teams storming up the stairs right now. I told Ross that we’d deal with this shit next week over some tea and crumpets, but the man has absolutely no patience...”

Interrupting, FRIDAY announced, “Twenty soldiers armed with non-lethals just entered the east wing, ten on the roof, three additional teams about to breach the building on all sides, boss.”

“FRIDAY, just unlock everything so these assholes don’t destroy the whole place.” As the metal started folding in around him, Tony rolled his eyes. “Would you idiots get in the fucking suits! FRIDAY’s gonna control them! You just have to stand there and look cool! I’m calling it the PR Vigilante armor.”

Bucky heard boots on the stairs. Less than forty-five seconds until they were in range.

“I mean, if you two really wanna stay here, waving _your_ tighty whities in the air and then getting dragged in front of some bullshit tribunal in Washington, be my guest. Me? I prefer to deal directly with The President, which I’m working on by the way. Me and the POTUS are _this close_ to playing eighteen holes at Camp David next weekend. In the meantime, I thought you boys might wanna take these babies for a spin, see the sights…” Tony’s faceplate snapped shut and the retractable roof started opening above them.

Bucky looked at Steve, who could _not_ in any way, shape, or form handle a tribunal of any kind, and asked, “You wanna do this?”

The vibration of the boots was perceptible through the floor. Twenty-five seconds remaining.

Steve set his jaw. “I do. Do you?”

“Hell, yes. I do! Let’s go!”

It took a fraction of a second for Bucky to make his body move, getting used to the idea that he was about to rocket across upstate New York, but as soon as Steve nodded, they both stepped backwards into the armor. It was beyond cool until it fucking surrounded him...then it freaked him out...there was so much shit in front of his face!...holy fuck!...it clamped around everything, seriously _everything_...and what the actual fuck!? Oh, Bucky was panicking. Full on panic attack because his ribs were getting mushed, and his nuts were getting squeezed by a bazillion dollar robot machine, and FRIDAY was saying, “Relax, Sergeant Barnes,” and he wanted to scream, ‘you fucking relax!’ but he was lifting off the ground, and the suit was moving his arms around as it did something to the soldiers who’d just dramatically knocked the double doors to the workshop off their hinges...all of them were falling over and grabbing their ears...Tony was yelling through the comms, “The door was unlocked! What the hell is wrong with you people!?”...and suddenly there was very, very, very loud rap music blasting in Bucky’s ears telling him to ‘sit down and be humble’...then all he could see was the mother fucking sky.

Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit…

Tony’s voice joined the sick beat...seriously, even scared out of his fucking mind, Bucky knew a sick beat when he heard one...and quipped, “Hey, boys, how are we doin’? Enjoying Kendrick? Parker told me about him. You can only listen to classic rock for so long before it just becomes sad. Listen, Kendrick’s reminding me to be humble. That’s not gonna work, but I still dig it.”

“...hold up. Sit down. Be humble. Sit down. Be humble. Hold up….” Jesus christ, what the hell was this guy talking about? Grey Poupon? Did he really just rap the words ‘Grey fucking Poupon’!?

Bucky was still going up...way too high. He was way too high, and then there was Steve, who seemed to be having a very similar reaction to Bucky. The only difference was the higher pitch of his, “Holy shit, holy shit, Tony. Tony. Tony!”

“No, Steve, it’s Tony, Toni, Toné.”

What the actual fuck was going on right now! Bucky was gonna pass out. He was gonna pass right out for two hours, and when he woke up this dude would still be telling him to ‘sit down and be humble’. The g-force that hit Bucky’s body when the suit finally flipped forward and accelerated was...holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!

Thankfully, as soon as Bucky could see the ground, things quickly got less ‘holy shit!!!’ and more ‘wow...holy shiiittt’. Even though he was disoriented and his nuts hurt, there was something captivating about watching their sunflower hideout getting smaller and smaller until it had disappeared completely. The only thing that Bucky could see was Iron Man blasting through the sky ahead of him and another Iron Man...Steve...to his right (yeah, that was weird). Steve’s voice had made it past the complete and utter freak out phase and had dropped back down to its normal low and sexy register. He was saying things like, ‘Wow, the forest looks so beautiful from up here’, ‘Bucky, can you believe we’re flying?’ and ‘Can we go up to the clouds?’.

There was a hitch in Steve’s voice on that last one, but Bucky figured that it was just the overwhelming view from inside the giant cumulous cloud. It really was gorgeous.

“Stevie?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

Tony interrupted, blurting, “Don’t you two start getting sappy in here. I _will_ tell FRIDAY to fly you overly romantic ding dongs head down the rest of the way…”

Bucky laughed as their speed picked up, the exhilaration magnificent, as he asked, “Are you enjoying the ride, Steve?”

The little chuckle carried across the comms, the tiny exhale letting Bucky know that Steve had caught his meaning. When Steve answered, “Yeah, baby, for as long as it lasts,” Bucky believed him.

  
  


**Superhero Sleepover                                                              Thursday, July 20, 2017- 3 pm**

As far as Stark Plans were concerned, this one _might_ not have been Tony’s best moment. Yeah, he’d gotten everyone out. Goonie Team Mikey was gonna have a blast listening to Vision play acoustic guitar around the campfire while they roasted marshmallows on rustic sticks. That part of the plan had been successful. But beyond the big win of getting away from the bad guy, who _technically_ was the good guy, Tony’s planning had encountered many snags along the way.

Problem number one: Tony had jumped so far back onto the alcoholic train that he couldn’t even properly finish this sentence because he was still hungover.

Problem number two: Bucky Barnes kept almost dying. Very distracting.

Problem number three: Tony was trying to figure out how to remove the thing that was _currently_ killing Bucky without killing him in the process. Confusing _and_ time consuming.

Problem number four: Tony really thought that he was gonna land a meeting with the big kahuna in the Oval Office and circumvent Ross altogether. He didn’t think that Ross would shoot his load so fucking fast. Premature Arrest.

Problem number five: He couldn’t remember why he’d decided to put Mouth and Chunk on Team Data. Tony had been staring at the suits, fresh off the line, when this lapse in memory had dawned on him. Deciding that the intoxicated version of himself must have had a logical reason to spend eight-hundred-million dollars on what really added up to a very obscure joke, Tony just kept going.

Problem number six: Tony had gotten to the part of the plan where he’d manufactured the super twins new Black Power Ranger Suits (if he’d designed them to look _exactly_ like the new Black Power Ranger, Tony would never admit it), but he hadn’t made it to the part where he’d made any definitive plans about where the three of them were going once they’d cleared the compound.

That left Tony standing precariously on the final step of his half-ass plan: Improvisation.  

And ohhh, Improvisation was already giving him a headache, and they’d only been in his apartment for half-an-hour.

Problem number seven: Peter Parker’s similarities to a squirrel on speed.

Tony wasn’t sure why Peter had shoved the three of them into his bedroom, slamming the door shut and leaving them stuck in teenage hell like they were hamsters in a very, very, very small cage. The living room had seemed like a fine place to entertain guests; even if those guests were fugitives, war criminals, traitors, etc. Former Avengers needed a reasonable amount of square footage to kick up their feet, and this bedroom was the size of a coat closet. When Parker’s birthday rolled around...whenever that was...Tony needed to get the kid a bigger desk...not that it would fit. Poking around at all the crap stacked on top, Tony decided that this one was the size of a kitschy TV table from the sixties; shaky, cheaply made, and barely big enough to fit a classic microwaveable dinner featuring salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, and golden nuggets of corn while Parker watched reruns of The Brady Bunch.

Steve had moved Peter’s giant fan and was sitting on the window ledge and fiddling with the blinds, which was very helpful in their attempt to avoid government drones, CCTV, and the satellite face recognition feeds. Sure, FRIDAY was intercepting everything, but did Steve _really_ need to make her work double time? At least The Winter Soldier had the decency to stay out of sight, although the way he was going about it was less stealthy assassin and more Cindy Brady. He was crammed on the top bunk with a bunch of storage containers full of...Tony squinted to try and see through the plastic...Matchbox cars? Harry Potter books? Erector sets?...Whatever. It didn’t matter. For the sake of good storytelling, Tony was going with the Matchbox cars, complete with the orange plastic racetrack that had all the loopty loops. Anyway, the most dangerous man in the world was making himself right at home on the top bunk, criss-crossing his legs and bumping his weirdly braided head into the ceiling.

“This is your plan?” Steve did the chuckle thing. Tony was not a fan.

The bedroom door slammed open, and Parker charged back in the room with two cans of Coke and a Capri Sun. Standing a good three feet away from the bed, he awkwardly tossed a Coke at Bucky as if Parker’d drawn the short straw and had to feed the meanest, hungriest tiger at the zoo and was afraid that his hand was gonna get bit off. Tony snickered, because it was so precious.

Retaining his hand, Peter rambled, “Lemme get this straight. You guys are hiding out in my room!? From the government!? Mr. Stark, is my room like a safe house?”

He bounced right in front of Tony, sheepishly holding out the other Coke and the weird juice thing. “I gave The Winter Soldier the first Coke. Sorry. Sorry, I probably should have served you first, since you’re like my mentor and all that, but to be honest...” Parker nervously glanced at Bucky, who responded with a weird little wave before obnoxiously chugging his Coke. Scrunching up his face, Peter whispered, “...he kinda scares me, so I didn’t wanna make him mad that he got stuck with the Capri Sun.”

“I’ll take the juice box.” Steve let go of the string for the blinds and laughed. “Tony can have the Coca-Cola.”

“It’s a juice _pouch_ ,” Bucky snickered, before pointing at Peter. “Hey, kid. You made the right choice. If you’d tried to stick me with the kiddie drink, I would’ve had to kill you.”

“Oh,” Peter yelped, taking a step backwards and running into Tony’s leg. “Oh, no, Mr. Soldier. I would never, like, think that you would enjoy the watermelon flavored fake juice stuff. I’m sorry, did you not like the Coke? I can get you something else if you’re still thirsty. I think May has some iced tea if that’s more…”

“Peter,” Steve interrupted, holding out his hands for the Capri Sun. “Bucky’s messing with you. He loves juice _boxes_.”

“Strawberry-Kiwi is my jam,” Bucky deadpanned, maintaining The Winter Soldier smolder. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna kill you.”

Scrubbing his hand across his goatee, Tony tried not to laugh. Bucky was a real asshole, and damn, if Tony didn’t like him more and more every day. He might even let him keep the suit, in case Bucky needed to fight Goldar.

“Are you like...” Peter stuttered, jerking his head back and forth between the three of them. His eyes finally landing on Tony, he whispered, “Is he serious?”

Tony grabbed the can of Coke out of the poor kid’s hand and popped the tab, while Steve helpfully stabbed the pointy straw into the poorly designed pouch, the juice running out everywhere as expected.

“No, he’s not serious!” Tony rolled his eyes, asking, “Bucky, are you serious?”

“No, I’m not serious at all. _Fruit Punch_ is _actually_ my jam.” He flopped back on the bed, grunting a little when his ribs hit the mattress, and stuck his feet over the end rail, whispering, “Spider Boy’s goin’ down.”

“Oh my god. What even? Mr. Stark, really, I don’t mean to be rude, but May’s gonna be home in a little bit, and I have no idea how I’m gonna explain the three Iron Man suits in the middle of the living room. Speaking of which, the black ones look a lot...and by ‘a lot’, I mean _exactly_ like the Black Power Ra…”

“And where is the lovely Aunt May?” Tony interrupted, because Parker was gonna ruin the world’s most expensive punchline! Giving him a good jab in his side, Tony hissed, “Zip it.”

Parker pulled his chin back and shifted his eyes to Steve, who was gazing out the window and sucking on his little plastic straw, then to Bucky’s feet, before a shitty little smile spread across his face. “Ohhh, Mr. Stark. That’s _really_ funny. But what if they find out...”

“So! You were about to tell me about the lovely Aunt May?”

“Oh, yeah, she’s doing something with her friend or something, but she said she’d be back in…” Looking at the clock on his nightstand, his squirrel panic increased exponentially. “Shit! I mean shoot...now. She’s supposed to be home around now! Don’t get me wrong, I am _very happy_ to see you in person, Mr. Stark, and Cap, Captain, it’s a real honor to see you again. But, Mr. Stark...why are you _here_?”

Tony tried to spin in the chair, but the thing only swung around halfway. Disappointing. “Yeah, well, it was time for my monthly mentor check-in, and I thought that I could kill two birds with one stone: avoiding the government _and_ seeing how things are going with our friendly neighborhood Spider Man here in Queens. Plus, I know how much The Winter Soldier scares you, so I brought him along for shits and giggles.”

Peter looked like he was going to stroke out. Sixteen-years-old and scared half to death by a guy who smuggled kittens in his pockets...

“Okay, I’m gonna give it to you straight, kid.” Tony moved the black knight on Parker’s chessboard into position to take the Queen. “Checkmate! So here’s the deal: we’re in a bit of a pickle and we’re all too tired to deal with General Ross. The three of us have had a really bad week... several bad weeks...years. We’ve had several bad _years_ , and my Freudian psyche took over my frontal lobe and alas, here we are. I’m too tired and too sober to analyze it any further at this particular juncture, but here’s the bottom line: my id really wants to hang out in your very uncomplicated walk-up for the night and order pizza. My treat.”

Parker was running his nervous squirrel hands through his hair way too much, but Steve and his super-ego were calmly approaching to hopefully save the day. Placing a reassuring hand on the kid’s shoulder, Steve sucked down the last of the Capri Sun through the tiny straw. The crinkling sound undermined Steve’s authority somewhat, but damn, if it didn’t make Tony smile.

The empty pouch was tossed into the minuscule trash can before Steve’s superhero super-ego said, “Peter. You can go ahead and call me ‘Steve’ from now on, and I want you to know that we’re really sorry that we showed up unexpectedly like this…”

“Yeah,” Parker interrupted, “I think you scared old Mrs. Tucker across the hall half to death when you pounded on my door in those suits. Like, that’s not exactly something you see every day in Queens, or anywhere…”

“I know.” Steve smiled, and even with his new lumberjack beard he looked...kind. “I’m sorry about that. But Tony’s right about all of us being tired, and Bucky and I, well, we really like pizza too. My favorite is the Hawaiian with the ham and the pineapple. _So_ good. Do you like pizza?”

“Well, yeah, duh. I’m more of a pepperoni and green pepper kinda guy, but…”

“Peppers are the spawn of Satan,” Bucky hissed.

“Bucky, would you stop…” Steve sighed. “That’s Bucky by the way. He thinks he’s funny.”

“Oh, so that was like, a joke about killing me? Because I’m not really comfortable with a dude who wants to kill me sleeping in the top bunk. That just seems like a fundamentally bad decision, and I’ve been trying to make safer decisions lately. Mr. Stark told me I should…”

“Smart choice,” Tony interrupted. “Very responsible, high level of self-preservation, I’m gonna make a note of that. I’ll have FRIDAY give you one of my gold stars. God knows she has lots of extras.”

Steve kept saturating Parker with comfort and kindness, responding with a perfect, “Yes, he’s kidding. Bucky, tell Peter you’re kidding.”

Rolling toward the edge of the bed, Bucky slung the scrap metal arm over the rail and propped up his chin. “Peter Parker, aka Spider Boy, I solemnly swear that I won’t kill you today, or any day hereafter, if you let me have one of those delicious Capri Suns. This bed is amazing by the way. Can I sleep up here? Steve, do you think this thing can hold both of us?”

“Bucky, oh my god.” Steve clapped a hand onto his forehead and pretended to be shocked, but Tony knew better. Rogers was just as inappropriate as Bucky. The only difference was that Steve thought it was funny to feign innocence.  

Poor Parker. Bucky had the nerve to bounce up and down a little, the whole bed rattling in the frame, and Peter responded with a very justified, “Woah, what...what is happening right now…?”

Leaping to his feet, Tony covered Peter’s ears...lasting one second before the kid swatted him away with his super spider powers. Whatever, it was the thought that counted. “Listen assholes, this is a G rated sleepover. Steve will be sleeping on the couch, or the floor, or, at this rate, maybe I’m gonna have to send him across the hall to Mrs. Tucker’s. Seriously, Bucky.”

Steve continued trying to sell the innocent act; rubbing at his innocent blue eyes and turning an appropriate shade of innocent pink before he innocently said, “How about we start with the pizza? I’m pretty sure that I could eat two entire larges all by myself, and Bucky eats…”

“I don’t know if Lenny the delivery guy can carry all that,” Peter interrupted. “I mean, that’s gonna be, what, six large pizzas? He’s really not that big, and...did you just say that you guys are gay? Like, it’s _sooo cool_ if you are. I’ve always thought, well, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve always thought that the two of you looked really good together in all the Smithsonian stuff and the pictures at school. You know, Cap...I mean, Steve...you’re all strong and blond, then um, well, Bucky...umm...Mr. Bucky standing next to you looks all ruggedly handsome and stuff. The two of you are like, aesthetically pleasing...and Sergeant Barnes’ hair, I mean, your hair has always looked super fine in all the pictures. With my hair...I aspire to make it look that good…” Peter awkwardly tried to flip his hair over in some sort of wave thing, and Tony’s headache was getting so much worse.

“You’re diggin’ a really big hole, Parker.” Tony tried to remind himself that at the end of this very uncomfortable rainbow he would find mouth watering pizza next to the pot of Goldar’s gold.

“No, I really mean it. That’s exactly what I want my hair to look like!”

Bucky was giggling, Steve was about to lose it, and somebody needed to save this kid from himself.

Tony had to pull this unplanned plan together. Now. Putting his hands on Peter’s shoulders, he steered him towards the naughty Captain. “Listen, Steve. I stole this kid from his Aunt, told him he didn’t have to do his homework, and dragged him to Germany to fight some of the most powerful beings in the universe. I cannot imagine a more age _inappropriate_ series of events. I’m really trying to earn gold stars by not exposing a fifteen-year-old to any more…”

“I’m sixteen now, Mr. Stark,” Peter interrupted.

Could Tony sigh any louder? He needed to. The normal decibel level for sighs wasn’t nearly enough to express his reaction to that interjection. “Can you drive?”

“Not yet, but I’m gonna take my driver’s test in a few…”

“If you can’t drive a car, you can’t fight Ant Man. But the point is, I’m trying to act like a grown up. So, for the love of god, Steve, can you _please_ answer Peter’s question in an age appropriate way.”

Steve got a huge grin, his puppy dog love exploding all over the four by four foot room, and answered, “Yeah, Bucky and I have been together since we were your age. Hey, Buck. Can you believe that? He’s the same age you were when you kissed me for the first time.”

“Age appropriate, Steve!” Tony was going to have a heart attack before he even got to _order_ the pizza.

“But the historians all say that you were in love with Peggy Carter,” Peter interjected.

Steve’s smile got even bigger, and Bucky snorted, and that was enough of that! Steering Parker towards the bunk bed, Tony said, “Bucky, if Parker let’s us stay, are you willing to show this _child_ how you used to style your hair _before_ you decided to headline The Vans Warp Tour?”

“It would be my pleasure.” Bucky smiled charmingly. Huh. Tony didn’t even know that he could do that.

“So, can we stay? Please?” Tony found himself pleading. _Pleading!_ This might be a new low. Begging a teenager to have some sort of superhero sleepover? Yeah. Put that right above building Astro the shot dog.

There was no doubt that Tony could probably...definitely...figure something else out. For example, The Four Seasons Hotel, The Plaza, The Waldorf Astoria, a Super 8 next to a rest stop on I-75... but he was so damn tired, and Steve’s idea of sitting on Peter’s couch and shoving hot pizza into his mouth, while Tony was squished next to the only two people in his life who were just as fucked up as he was, made Tony feel...ugh, feelings. Tony hadn’t done anything like that in a very long time...

Three fully grown men with assorted facial hair, staring hopefully at a kid who probably didn’t even own a razor, asking for a reprieve. Peter made a lot of crazy faces during the decision making process, but finally, thankfully, he smiled. “Sure, Mr. Stark. You can stay. But I’m serious about Lenny...he’s gonna need help getting that many pizza’s up the stairs…”

The relief that Tony felt as Steve steered Peter into the living room completely fixed the headache, even though Tony could still hear the kid talking, and talking, and talking...

“Hey, Tony,” Bucky said quietly. He’d stacked the plastic containers in the corner and was now in the process of making himself right at home, kicking off his shoes and bouncing his toes on the ceiling.

“What’s up, Buckaroo?”

“Thank you for what you did today.”

“I knew you’d love the suit. Fits like a glove, right?”

“It squeezed my nuts like crazy,” Bucky whined.

“Well, you must have bigger than average balls, because the nut size is standard.”

Bucky paused for a second; his feet coming to a standstill flat against the ceiling. “Steve and I are gonna do better by you from now on.”

“The two of you have your own stuff to worry about…”

“So do you,” Bucky interrupted.

That was a completely accurate three word sentence. Between the bullshit with Ross, the bullshit with The Accords, he couldn’t even begin with Pepper...god, he missed her...and the drinking...not going there either...and the goddamn arm. How the hell was he supposed to fix the goddamn arm?

Tony crawled onto the bottom bunk, kicked off his own shoes, and copied Bucky’s foot placement. Parker had some Polaroids stuck up in the cracks of the frame; a pretty girl with frizzy hair sticking out her tongue at the camera, that goofy Ned kid in an even goofier hat, a selfie with the three of them crammed into the picture and cutting off half of everyone’s head, Aunt May with a big smile and a bowl of light green ice cream. Tony had never owned a Polaroid camera…

“I’m not sure I can fix you. I don’t know how we’re gonna pull the neural connections without...”

“Tony, I’m not talking about the arm.”

Pepper loved mint chocolate chip ice cream. Once, when she’d had a sore throat, Tony had actually left Avenger’s Tower at two in the morning and had wandered four blocks to the twenty-four-hour drug store to buy her a gallon. Nobody had recognized him. He’d been just a guy like any other, buying his girlfriend something to make her feel better...  

Bucky shifted above him, the metal supports bending as he moved. “Thank you for bringing us here, Tony. As crazy as this might sound, it’s exactly what Steve and I needed.”

“It doesn’t sound crazy at all,” Tony sighed, thinking about mint chocolate chip ice cream. “It’s exactly what I needed too.”

  


**Dr. Max                                                                                 Saturday, July 22, 2017- 7:15 am**

Waking up with the inescapable springs of the fold out couch stabbing Steve in the thigh, hip, and back, and with Tony Stark’s face all squished up on the pillow next to him for the second morning in a row, logically should have bothered Steve. His feet were hanging off the edge, the sound of the El Train rumbling through Queensboro Plaza was loud and shook the entire building every twenty minutes, he was wearing the same clothes he’d had on since Thursday morning, complete with the dirt stains from the garden, his beard had come in enough that it was starting to itch, and May had insisted that Bucky and Steve couldn’t sleep in the same bed since they weren’t ‘married’. Bucky had choked on his fifth Capri Sun when she’d used the ‘M’ word and had made a hasty trip to the bathroom. All of these things should have added up to a horrible Saturday morning wake up, but instead, Steve was thinking that it might turn out to be his favorite Saturday morning wake ever.

It was the little things about crashing unexpectedly at ‘Peter Parker’s Safe House For Wayward Superheroes’ (Bucky’s name) that were putting an uncontrollable smile on Steve’s face. The way that Peter had dropped his spoon into his bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios yesterday at breakfast, splashing milk all over the table after Steve and Bucky had devoured the rest of the family size box in less than five minutes. It was Tony fixing May’s toaster oven and Bucky offering to wash the dishes; sticking both hands in the soap filled sink even after Tony had yelled at him to ‘keep it out of the water! I don’t have a goddamn AED in my pocket!’’ It was Peter sitting with Steve on the fire escape and asking for advice about handling the bad guys in Queens. It was Bucky getting to sleep in the top bunk after he’d proved, once and for all, that he could break the spider web stuff if he tried hard enough...Peter had done a really thin layer and had winked at Steve; giving The Soldier the rematch he’d required. It was May dusting off the shoulders of the Iron Man suits, that were squeezed into the corner of the living room next to the overflowing bookcase and the macrame wall hanging, with a yellow feather duster like they were any other piece of furniture. It was Bucky allowing May to rub out the kinks in his back after another bad spasm and accepting ice packs wrapped in pink towels for the sore spots on his ribcage. Steve felt like he was finally figuring out how to live in the day marked on the calendar, and, looking at the little cactus on the table, the dog-eared romance novel about to fall off the shelf, and the big crack running across the plaster of the ceiling, he felt happy in this moment.

Stretching out his toes, Steve rolled his ankles in slow circles while he really took in Tony. His hair was sticking up everywhere, and he was curled up in a little ball on his side of the mattress. Steve’d had him figured for a guy who sprawled out in his sleep; the type to throw his arms out, snore, migrate to the center of the bed, and steal all the covers. But he wasn’t like that at all. He was quiet, still, and maybe the most compact that Steve had ever seen him. Compared to yesterday’s restless sleep, Tony seemed peaceful this morning, and Steve knew exactly why.

At six o’clock last night there’d been a knock at the door. They’d all been bumping into one another while helping May bake lasagna in the tiny hot kitchen; toasting garlic bread in the newly fixed toaster oven, pouring plastic cups of iced tea, and pulling a stack of plates out of the cupboard. But as soon as Bucky had started grabbing random chairs to squeeze around the tiny square table, Tony had offhandedly said, ‘Hey, Bucky, think you can scrounge up one more?’

The hustle and bustle had come to a screeching halt, and Tony had taken an uncomfortably long drink of his iced tea, making eye contact with the colorful collection of potholders hanging on the kitchen wall. Bucky hadn’t even hesitated, going along with whatever Tony needed, and had responded, ‘No problem’ without question.

When the knock had finally come, Tony had stopped with his hands halfway out of the oven, holding onto the steaming lasagna for dear life and looking like he might pass out. As soon as May had opened the door, Tony had carefully set the dish on the counter and had dropped his hands to his sides. The toaster oven had started dinging next to him but everyone had allowed the garlic bread burn around the edges. There were more important things than dinner.

When Pepper had finally gone to him, they’d held one another in the middle of the kitchen long enough for the lasagna to get cold. Steve smiled just thinking about it, knowing with absolute certainty that the lasagna had tasted better that way...

Six people squeezed together on six mismatched chairs around a table built for four. It should have felt crowded, but as the smells and smiles had filled the entire room, as Pepper’s hand had casually slid on top of Tony’s between their plates, as Bucky had made May and Peter laugh, the space had seemed like it was expanding...it had felt like the true meaning of the word _home._

The train rumbled by again, and Steve could hear the sound of a cat meowing outside the open window. He wondered if BP and Cam would like life in the city? He didn’t want to get ahead of himself again, and he wasn’t going to use the word ‘forever’, but, if Bucky wanted to, maybe they could make a home of their own somewhere? It didn’t have to be New York. It could be Atlanta, Boston, New Orleans, Florence…

It couldn’t be at the compound or in one of the floors that Tony still controlled at the tower. It couldn’t be in DC or Wakanda. Those were all homes created by other people, where versions of Steve and Bucky had fallen into the established routines of those around them. Even moving back to Brooklyn would be falling into the routines of the past. Sure, Steve would like to go visit once in awhile, to sit on the bench where St. Michael’s used to be and share a strawberry banana smoothie from Baskin-Robbins with Bucky. But they didn’t need to live there. They should go somewhere completely new. Where little things that reminded them of their past would pop in to surprise them once in awhile: a neighborhood candy store that stocked vintage style gumballs, Sugar Daddies, and yes, Red Vines alongside the supersized Milky Way bars, Starburst, and a million varieties of energy drinks. A neighbor kid with dark curls like Becca, but who always wore jeans with holes in the knees and a backwards baseball cap while sitting on her stoop and staring at her iPhone. An old payphone that the city hadn’t bothered to remove, reminding Steve and Bucky of the things that they’d done to survive, what it had taken for the two of them to make it to this wonderful Saturday in 2017...

Carefully rolling off the lumpy mattress and making sure not to wake Tony, Steve dug his toes into the carpet in front of the window, catching sight of the big orange tabby cat that was responsible for all the racket sitting on the ledge two windows down. Steve couldn’t help but smile as he said, “Hey, buddy, beautiful morning isn’t it?”

The cat responded by licking its paw and cleaning behind its ear.

Pushing the window open all the way, Steve settled on the ledge and decided that the cat seemed like a pretty good fellow. “You know, I used to hate cats,” he started. “For _years_... actually...up until a few days ago. But that wasn’t always the case. Once, I saved a bag of kittens from getting thrown into the river...well, Bucky ultimately saved them... but we both took a pretty good beating from Donny Salerno’s gang for our trouble.” Steve leaned out and ran his hand across the burgundy paint of the fire escape. It was cracking and the iron was peeking through; everywhere Steve touched, little pieces flaked off. It was oddly beautiful.

“We couldn’t believe our eyes when we untied the bag and seven hungry kittens popped out, every single one with the exact same brown stripes. Bucky and I couldn’t tell one from the other, but you better believe that Bucky gave them seven names. He had no idea which one went with which kitten, but when we handed them over to Dr. Leonard, the veterinarian, a few hours later, Bucky kissed all seven noses and said goodbye to them by ‘name’. Marvin, Sally, Harold, Eddie, Ginger, and Janie. I remember making fun of him for being such a sap, but honestly, it was the sweetest thing I’d ever seen.”

A big fat bumblebee flew past the cat, but this feline couldn’t be bothered with such trivial cat pastimes. If Mr. Orange Cat could talk, Steve imagined that he’d have a very posh British accent.

“You know what’s strange, Mr. Cat? I don’t have any idea when or why Bucky stopped liking cats. I’m gonna ask him that today.”

The train rumbled by again, and Steve realized that the wheels grinding on the tracks hadn’t taken his mind anywhere else but Queens. He’d stayed right here, right now, and had happily embraced the sound. The street below was starting to come alive with the hustle and bustle of the morning; trash cans getting dragged back inside storefronts, sharp whistles calling for taxis, and a big Great Dane dragging its owner down the sidewalk. But the cat didn’t move, casually keeping an eye on Steve while it started grooming it’s tail.

“Do you wanna know the reason that I hated cats for so long? I’ve never told anyone, but you look like someone I can trust.” That was a ridiculous thought, but Steve was really enjoying this conversation so he went ahead and told his tale. “After Bucky left for basic, Becca...that was Bucky’s sister...came over to me and Buck’s apartment dragging this wiggly, hissing, skinny stray cat with half a tail that she’d found wandering around the street. She’d gotten this grand idea in her head that the scraggly thing would keep me company or something. I mean, I hadn’t exactly been hiding the fact that I was a complete mess without her brother around, and when she’d spotted the cat looking all pissy after it hadn’t caught the sparrow it had been stalking, Becca said it’s expression had reminder her of me after I lost a fight. His fur was grey, and was missing the tips of his ears along with the tail, and his whiskers were the longest that I’d ever seen. I named him Michael, because, once upon a time, I believed wholeheartedly in God and the Saints. Michael is the Patron Saint of Soldiers.” Steve shook his head at himself, for obvious reasons. “I know, I know, Mr. Cat. It was stupid and superstitious, but having that scrappy cat around made me believe that I was providing some kind of extra spiritual protection for Bucky. It only took a couple of days for Michael to start sleeping in Bucky’s spot. He spent his time killing all the mice in the apartment and liked looking out the window at the people on the sidewalk. He kept me company...I loved him.”

The sun was shining over the buildings now; the air conditioners, chimneys, and satellite dishes creating a completely new silhouette. Steve liked the shape of it. Swinging his legs out the window, he quietly crawled onto the fire escape, leaning back against the corner. May was growing a bunch of fresh herbs in small pots, and the scent of basil and mint filled Steve’s nose. The cat was still sitting there staring at him. Maybe even listening.

“Then guess what happened?” Steve sniffed, because he was in the middle of some sort of weird cat therapy session or something, and he didn’t even feel the need for a stress ball. “The morning that Bucky was due to get back from basic, I found Michael dead in the corner of the kitchen. He was fine when I’d gone to bed, crouched down and staring patiently under the stove and waiting for another mouse to show its face, but when I found him, just after sunrise, he was as stiff as a board with his green eyes wide open and pointing at the ceiling. I buried him in Mrs. Maguire’s flower garden just two hours before Bucky’s train pulled in.”

Steve picked three mint leaves off May’s plant and crushed them between his palms, rolling them around until the smell permeated the air.

“I never told Bucky that Michael had ever existed, making sure to get rid of any sign of him in our apartment before I left for the train station. Becca didn’t tell him either, because she understood superstition. Michael, named after the Patron Saint of Soldiers, who I’d nonsensically charged with Bucky’s protection, had keeled over dead on the very day I needed him to protect Bucky the most; the day he’d officially become a soldier.

“I took it as a bad omen, Mr. Cat, and since then, every time I’ve seen one of your kind, it’s only reminded me that I, like Michael, wasn’t there to protect Bucky either.”

Inhaling the mint off his palms, Steve stretched out his back then raised his arms high into the air, leaning from side to side. The cat had stretched out fully on his own ledge, enjoying the morning sun as it lit up his own little window to the world. Steve had thought that he’d feel horrible if he ever told that story out loud, not that he’d ever imagined himself telling it to a cat, but Steve felt lighter. Michael had been a good cat, and he deserved to be remembered. “I have good news, Mr. Orange. I’ve decided to give cats another chance, and I have two brand new kittens in my life. Neither of them are named after Saints, thank god.” Taking another big whiff of the mint, Steve felt nothing but appreciation for his cat therapist. “You’re a really good listener. I wonder what your name is?”

“His name’s Max and that was a real sad story, mister.” An older woman with reading glasses and a greying bun on top of her head popped out the window. The cat lazily swatted at her dangling silver necklace. “But you need to get your head checked if you’re gonna go around holding entire conversations with other people’s pets.”

Steve laughed and gave her a big smile. “It’s going to be a beautiful day, don’t you think?”

“Maybe if you say something to cheer me up. You almost made me cry in my coffee.”

Yeah, you couldn’t exactly label the story of Saint Michael the Cat as happiness and fluff. “How about if I tell you that I’m back to loving cats?”

“That’s a good start, but you’ve gotta give me something a little more substantial, son.”

Thinking about Bucky squished onto the top bunk in a room filled with Star Wars posters, video games, legos, and partially assembled computers, Steve knew exactly why today was the most beautiful Saturday of his entire life...

“What if I told you that my soldier made it home from the war after all?”

  
  


**Embrace the Foot Fetish                                                    Saturday, July 22, 2017- 11 am**

Steve had never seen anyone painting their toenails before, which, now that he was thinking about it, was surprising considering how much he loved Bucky’s toes. Watching May squinting through her glasses at the foot that she’d propped up on the edge of the coffee table was giving Steve ideas...naughty ideas. The way she was carefully using the tiny brush to pull the paint across each one of her toenails was oddly sensual, and it was only enhanced by the richness of the deep red polish that she’d chosen. It was the same color of the shirt that Peter had bought for Bucky from The Gap this morning.

Peter had collapsed onto the couch after his shopping adventure; reaching into the blue bag, he’d tossed a grey t-shirt across the room to Steve, had nicely handed a black polo to Tony, then, impressively, had the courage to bean Bucky in the head with a red one while he was absently playing with a Rubik’s Cube. Ballsy. Steve really wished that he could have FRIDAY pull the surveillance tape of Spider Man’s mind boggling mission to pick out fresh clothes for three former Avengers at The Gap. Had the poor kid sheepishly approached the most muscular guy he could find and asked if he could hold up a t-shirt to his chest to see if Captain America would fit into a ‘large’ or ‘extra large’ crewneck pocket tee? Or, had he found a full length mirror, held the black polo up to himself and thought, ‘This would fit me perfectly, so it’ll definitely fit Mr. Stark.’ The image of skinny Peter Parker holding a giant t-shirt up in front of his chest, thinking ‘I could fit five of me in this thing, so it’s probably the right size for Captain America and The Winter Soldier’ was priceless. The kid really did have a lot of heart.

There had been a logistical incident with the dryer in the basement that had left the three of them sitting around in their brand new t-shirts with towels wrapped around their waists, while they’d awkwardly waited for the rest of their clothes to dry. The whole situation had been very confusing; something about the coin operated dryer eating the last of May’s quarters without turning on, but she’d thought it had turned on, but then, while they were showering, she went to get their clothes and it _hadn’t_ turned on, and then Peter had gotten back...but they had no pants. Obviously, Bucky had no problem hanging around in a brand new Gap crewneck tee and a towel. In fact, he’d told May to not even worry about his shorts, he was gonna enjoy the freedom that the striped cotton towel had to offer.

Eventually, the wonderful Mrs. Tucker from across the hall had saved the day with her abundant stash of quarters, and now, everyone was clean, fully clothed, and doing absolutely nothing that would be considered life threatening, dramatic, aggressive, or even particularly interesting. Steve was sitting on an ugly floral print chair at the kitchen table, passing a New York Times crossword puzzle back and forth with Tony...who was on his sixth glass of iced tea...and silently racing one another to see who could fill in the next word the fastest. Steve was letting Tony think that he was slightly in the lead.

Bucky was squished into the corner of the couch next to May, fiddling with a comb, and he looked beautiful. Simple as that. Beautiful. May had given him one of her razors, and he’d spent a long time in the bathroom giving himself a really close shave. It was taking a lot of self control for Steve not to run right over and nibble his way up that smooth jawline. He’d done something different with his hair too. The sides were loosely pulled back and secured with one of May’s red hair bands, but he’d left a few pieces hanging down over his cheekbones. He’d left the rest of his damp hair down to dry naturally, and the natural waves were bending and curling around his shoulders. There were still little bits of color stuck in between the plates on his arm, and he’d used three yellow and turquoise striped Band-Aids to secure the two unresponsive fingers together. When Bucky had been in the shower, the pinky had lost it’s tension and started falling in whatever direction Bucky turned his hand.

Staring down at the crossword puzzle, Steve tried to think of the word for ‘making great mental demands; hard to comprehend, solve, or believe’ instead of getting lost beneath the water again...

It had taken the medical team eleven minutes to get Bucky’s heart started again. Eleven. Every time a clock read eleven, Steve thought about it. Every time he flipped a book past page eleven, he thought about it. Every time he set the alarm on his phone, Steve would stare at the stopwatch, pleading with himself not to push the button again. The night after Bucky had drowned, he’d pushed the stopwatch over and over; letting it run for eleven minutes while he imagined the muscles of Bucky’s heart sitting completely still in his chest for all that time.

Dr. Cho had insisted that Bucky stay in the medical wing indefinitely while they’d tried to figure out which neural connections were causing the seizures and if the water was somehow seeping into the arm and setting them off. After three days without any definitive answers, Bucky had gotten out of the bed on Tuesday afternoon, pulled off the electrodes, the IVs, the connections to the machines monitoring his oxygen levels, and the bandages covering the new burns from the shocks and had walked up to Steve on the couch outside his room. Steve had been talking on the phone with Wanda when Bucky had gently tapped his shoulder and had said, ‘They’re not gonna know anything until they take it off. So, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to go see our kittens now.’

You can do a lot in eleven minutes. You can cook a batch of linguini, read an entire issue of US Weekly, organize all the food in your kitchen, balance eleven spoons on the edge of a coffee table, stack eleven handguns on top of one another, teach a kitten to jump onto your lap for a treat...but you can’t do any of those things if your heart isn’t beating.

Steve had said goodbye to Wanda and had taken Bucky by the hand, feeling his heartbeat beneath his skin, and had practically run with him back to their apartment. In eleven minutes you can carefully remove a hospital gown from your lover, adjust the bandages wrapped around his broken ribs, run your fingers over every inch of his precious skin, and tell him that you love him too many times to count.

Now, Peter was staring into a little pink hand mirror and sitting in his broken desk chair in front of Bucky, who, despite the fingers, was using both hands to show the kid how to properly use pomade. Peter had been right; as soon as Bucky had combed his hair back and over, pushing at the side enough to get the wave in front just right, his hair looked so much like Bucky’s when he’d been young that it took Steve’s breath away. It was clear that Bucky saw it too, if the shy smile that he gave Steve across the room said anything.

 

> _“Stevie, my hair is all sweaty. I’ve been workin’ all day. Get your hands outta there, punk.”_
> 
> _“But I can use the sweat to make this wave look extra gorgeous, Buck. C’mon, sit still. Lemme just play with it…”_

 

Tony broke Steve out of his daze when he shook the crossword puzzle and declared, “I just got ‘Attire that may leave the chest bare.’ What do you have to say to that, Steve?”

“Sarong.”  

Dropping his elbows on the table, Tony questioned, “Pilgrimage site in central Italy?”

“Assisi”

“How the hell did you know that?”

Steve chuckled, feeling a little guilty when he said, “I’ve been there.”

Tony tossed down the ballpoint pen and laughed outright. “You know all of these already, don’t you?”

“I don’t know ‘Pop music’s, ‘blank’ Vanilli’,” Steve replied, because that was the only one that had stumped him.

“Millie! It’s ‘Millie’, Steve.” Tony shoved back the wooden stool he’d been sitting on and exclaimed, “And with that, I’m out. I’ve gotta make another pitcher of iced tea anyway...and pee.”  

“Tony,” Steve touched his arm as he passed. Watching Tony’s hands shake as he’d filled in the letters for ‘knotty’ inside the little squares had only accentuated how much the team had failed him...how much _Steve_ had failed him. “I’m sorry for not being there for you.”

“All that’s troubled water under the bridge, or is it a bridge over troubled water? Doesn’t matter. Steve, we had a difference of opinion. It happens. I threw you a giant ill advised princess party with real snow and everything to symbolize letting it go, remember?”

Wrapping his hand over Tony’s, Steve allowed the two of them to shake together. “Tony. I’m sorry for not being there when _you_ needed me.”

“Woah, Steve, um…” Pinching the bridge of his nose, Tony sniffed before he eventually nodded his head. “We…” He huffed out a breath and pulled his hand away to head into the kitchen, but not before whispering, “...we should have sleepovers more often.”

In eleven minutes you can begin to heal a friendship that you’d thought had been ruined beyond repair.

May closed the cap to the polish and leaned over the armrest to switch on the stereo, flipping through a few stations before landing on one playing Salsa music. When she stretched her feet across the table to dry, bouncing them slightly to the beat, they looked so pretty...

Without thinking, Steve blurted out, “Buck, I Dare you to let me paint your toes.”

Tony spit out a huge gulp of iced tea all over the kitchen counter, Peter dropped the hand mirror on his foot, while poor Aunt May was stuck somewhere between utter shock and curiosity...oh god, why did Steve do that to poor Aunt May?

Bucky, on the other hand, was wildly amused. “Stevie, are you using a Dare to thinly disguise your clinically diagnosed toe fetish?”

“Oh my god!” Tony shouted, desperately unspooling paper towels. “Age-appropriate!”

Steve dropped his head onto the table and mumbled, “That slipped out, I shouldn’t have…”

“You can use my polish,” May interrupted with a big laugh, “because I’ve _got_ to see this.”

  
  


**Maybe Don’t Embrace The Foot Fetish                           Saturday, July 22, 2017- 12:10 pm**

Steve was sitting cross-legged in the middle of Peter’s bedroom with Bucky’s gorgeous foot in his lap, carefully pulling the brush loaded with red polish over Bucky’s big toenail. He was getting better and better with each toe, getting less on the skin _around_ the nail and more where it was supposed to go. The little toe had been a complete failure, the paint covering the nail and pretty much the entire digit, but this last one...wow...when Steve made the final brushstroke Bucky’s big toe was perfection, and he couldn’t wait for it to dry so he could wrap his lips around it and gently suck on it. The sheer fact that Steve’s dick was straining against his shorts made him really mad that he hadn’t thought to paint Bucky’s toenails before, because damn…

Bucky wasn’t helping Steve’s accuracy in the slightest, because he kept squishing his forehead against Steve’s shoulder and trying not to laugh.

Taking another look at the color, Steve whispered, “Are you sure you’re okay with the red, baby?”

“Steve, we can’t avoid the color red for the rest of our lives because you once went a little overboard with the mental symbolism.” Wiggling his toes a little, Bucky murmured, “I’ve always liked red, and this shade looks like Peggy’s lipstick, don’t you think?”

It did! God, it matched her lipstick perfectly. Steve remembered exactly how the color had looked when Peggy’s kisses had stained Bucky’s lips the same bright red. Lifting Bucky’s head off of his shoulder, Steve breathed against his lips. “I think that she’d put it on extra thick when she knew she was gonna kiss you, baby, because you always looked so damn pretty afterwards.”

“Yeah?” Bucky licked across Steve’s bottom lip, before nipping just a little. “That’s funny, because I remember whispering into Peggy’s ear that she should kiss _you_ first. That way she and I could both appreciate that stunning red on _your_ pouty lips.”

Oh, that was it. Steve set the bottle on the carpet and knocked Bucky backwards onto the floor, climbing on top of him and rubbing his cock along Bucky’s inner thigh. The adrenaline from the memory...jesus. Steve had been standing in front of a full length mirror in the dimly lit hotel room, staring at the way the lipstick had stained his mouth and cheek while Bucky and Peggy had both knelt…

“Steve! My ribs!” Bucky hollered.

“Oh, god…”

“And my toes!” Bucky hollered even louder.

“Oh, son of a bitch! I forgot about your toes!”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. Look, you totally messed up the whole foot and now it’s all over the carpet!”

The carpet! Shit! Steve tried to push up, but Bucky quickly wrapped his arms around his back, the arm jerking inward against Steve’s body with two sharp clicks. “Don’t you dare move, Stevie. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

In eleven minutes you could paint five perfect toes...

Dropping his face against Bucky’s neck, Steve asked, “Did you talk to Tony about what this situation with Ross means for the surgery?”

“No, and I hope that’s okay with you.”

If Steve practiced, in eleven minutes he could probably paint all ten...

“Bucky, do you _want_ to get it fixed?”

“Yes.”

Steve nuzzled against his freshly shaved skin, because that was enough for today. A simple answer to a life changing question...it was _more_ than enough.

God, he smelled so good...and he felt so good...and...growling, Steve tangled his fingers in the back of Bucky’s hair, twisting the little half ponytail and pulling hard enough to grant him full access to the line of Bucky’s neck. “Your toes turn me on so much,” Steve snickered, sucking a little bruise above the collarbone.

Bucky moaned, rolling his hips up to meet Steve’s. “I love that you’re such a pervert and I want you to just…”

The door suddenly flew open, and, in Steve’s panic to get off Bucky, he knocked the bottle of polish into the side of Bucky’s new shirt and all over the carpet, bashed his shoulder into Peter’s desk so the entire chessboard, kings, queens, knights, and all smashed onto Bucky’s forehead before the board landed on his _very, very, very_ hard dick.

“Fuck!” Bucky yelled at the same time as Steve yelled, “Shit!”

May was standing in the doorway, hands over her face...although, to be clear, she _was_ peeking through her fingers. “I swear, every time I open this door! This is fucking worse than the last time!”

  
  


**Beautiful                                                                             Saturday, July 22, 2017- 12:30 pm**

May had lined them up on the couch like they were all in trouble with the school principal for cheating on a history exam, or stealing the opposing football team’s mascot. She was no nonsense when she told Bucky to take off his new red shirt, that was now covered in red nail polish, and held out her hand. “C’mon, hand it over before you ruin any more of my carpet!”

Steve’s heart sank, knowing how Bucky felt about his scars and the new bruises stretching all the way around his ribcage, but he didn’t hesitate. Bucky simply stood up, smiled at her sheepishly, and said, “I’m really sorry, May,” before slowly reaching both arms over his shoulders to grab the back of the shirt. The change took Steve off guard. Bucky rolled his body just enough to flex every single muscle as he pulled the t-shirt over his head. It was a really good show, and Steve had to admit that he was both shocked and horny as Bucky held the fabric out to May with a wink.

“Are you showing off your very muscular body...wow, you have really nice chest hair...um...if you just did that body roll to get yourself out of trouble, mister…” Taking a step back, May ran her eyes all the way from Bucky’s head to his toes and back again. “...well, it is working.” She whistled, almost like she hadn’t noticed his scars and bruises at all. Or maybe she saw Bucky like Steve did? Beautiful just as he was. “Wow, honey. That is _working!_ ”

Bucky’s smile was sunshine bright as he fell back into the couch next to Tony. For some reason May had made Tony sit in between them, and he was obviously confused by the entire situation. Twiddling his thumbs, Tony asked, “Why am I in trouble again?”

The face Peter was making at May was priceless, but she kept staring at Bucky’s muscles and shrugged. Need to get out of trouble? Shirtless Bucky will overpower moral conviction every single time.

“Really, May?” Peter scoffed. “You’re not really setting a very good example for me here.”

It seemed like all she could do was shrug...and drool. Bucky winked at her again, and Steve thought that he might pee his pants.

“Fine, _I’ll_ do it,” Peter snapped, centering himself on Tony. “Mr. Stark, are you guys, like, planning on staying in our apartment indefinitely? Because, I mean, I know you’ve done a lot for me with the suit, and the opportunities, and the questionable advice...and I appreciate it, I don’t want you to think I don’t...but you guys.” He looked back and forth between the three of them like a disappointed dad. “You can’t stay stay here. Maybe another day or two, like _at the most_ is cool. I mean, May really seems to be having a great time staring and objectifying the half naked Winter Soldier right now…” Peter elbowed her, but she was completely locked in. If Bucky bit his bottom lip, she was done for. Groaning, the poor kid continued, “But our place is pretty small, and we don’t really have room for these...I mean these Iron Man suits are freakin’ _gigantic_...and Mrs. Fischer called and asked why there was a weird guy sitting on the fire escape and having a meaningful conversation with her cat this morning…”

“Who was talking to a cat?” Tony blurted, swiveling his head between the two of them. “I’ve been completely sober for almost two days, so I can say with absolute certainty that it wasn’t me!”

Bucky gave Steve a look...a look that said ‘you are a fucking lunatic! I love you!’...and tears were literally running down his cheeks from trying to stifle his laughter.

“Mrs. Fischer said that the lunatic _with the beard_ seemed very nice, but she was concerned that he was gonna try to kidnap Max!”

“Who’s Max?” Bucky snorted.

“He’s a really nice orange cat.” Steve stared at his feet when he said it, trying to sound sorry. Oh god, he didn’t sound sorry.

Peter was gesturing a lot, ending with two outspread hands directed at May, who’d just thrown Bucky a wink of her own. “And now, not only did you guys ruin the carpet in my room, but Bucky’s unfairly awesome chest and super badass robot arm has broken my Aunt May!”

Steve lost it. And when Steve lost it, Bucky lost it, and when Bucky lost it, Tony lost it.

“Did you really have a conversation with a cat?” Tony stammered.

“Oh my god, worse than that!” Steve was gonna fall over, he was laughing so hard. “I told him one of my deepest, darkest secrets! He was such a good listener!”

“Mr. Stark, you’ve gotta go. I tried to put it nicely, but May and I, we, we need our house back.”

Tony pulled himself together and cleared his throat. “Listen, kid, you’ve been a great host, and, Aunt May, you are truly wonderful, I couldn’t have asked for hospitality greater than yours…”

“You’re right,” Steve interrupted, because for once Tony shouldn’t have to play diplomat. “You do need your apartment back. How about the three of us work on figuring a few things out this afternoon, and we’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow morning at the latest?”

When Tony leaned back into the cushions, Steve could feel the relief pouring out of him.

“May.” Steve waved his hands to try to get her attention. “May, is that okay with you?”

“Did you get any polish on your shirt, Steve? Because it’s no trouble for me to toss it in the washer…” May was still staring at Bucky when she said it, and before he even did it, Steve _knew_ what was about to happen. Bucky leaned forward and smiled up at her through his eyelashes before slowly licking his lips and giving May the lip bite...

“Okay, that’s it!” Parker yelled, physically blocking his Aunt’s view. “You can stay ‘till the morning, but _everyone_ needs to keep their shirts on. Steve, you cannot talk to Mrs. Fischer’s cat again, or anyone else’s cat for that matter. Mr. Oberman upstairs has a cat named Peanut that hangs out on the fire escape once in awhile, and if I catch you talking to her, I’ll throw you out on your ass myself!”

“He’s more mad at your cat whispering than our steamy make-out session on his bedroom floor,” Bucky whispered.

“Got it,” Steve smiled at him, genuine affection peppering his words. “You’re a great person, Peter. I’m really glad that we had this time to really get to know you. And, May, thank you for letting us stay. I know this might not make sense, but this has been the best few days that any of us have had in a very long time, and words cannot express what a blessing that’s been.”

Peter shooed May into the kitchen, then slumped his shoulders. “Now I feel bad for yelling.”

Getting to his feet, Steve offered Peter a piece of advice that he wished would have sunk in when he was a sixteen year old kid in Brooklyn. “Never feel bad for telling the truth, Peter. It’s always the right thing to do.” 

  
  


**Kittens Love Loose Strings                                                       Sunday, July 30, 2017- 5 pm**

“So, how’s the new place? Mr. Stark told me that it’s a real dump. I mean, I’m sure he thinks that my apartment is a dump. I didn’t mean it like that...”

“Peter,” Bucky interrupted with a laugh. “It is a total dump, and we love it.” Leaning against a chimney on top of the five story building that Parker had chosen to camp out on, Bucky was watching Steve throwing an apple up and down underneath the shadow of the oversized ‘Stop Gun Violence’ billboard. “Actually,” he continued. “I don’t wanna give you the wrong impression. Our apartment’s really nice...we have a balcony and everything...and why would Tony say it’s a dump!? He hasn’t even seen the inside!”

“You have two Iron Man suits stashed there, and you’re telling me that Mr. Stark hasn’t seen the inside? I know the two of you are smarter than that!” Peter laughed.

Bucky and Steve did not laugh.

“You guys also need to Google the Black Power Ranger from the new movie. I’m telling you this as a colleague, maybe as a friend...we are friends now, right? Do not, I repeat, do _not_ fly those things in public until Mr. Stark repaints them.”

Bucky and Steve did not laugh for a second time.

“Anyway, it’s so cool that you decided to stick with Queens. I’m really pumped that you’re so close to me! But not _too close_ to me. Forest Hills doesn’t really need three super people who aren’t Avengers, if you know what I mean? And when you called and said that you wanted to go on patrol with me, it just blew my mind. My mind is blown.” Peter moved his hands around his head like his mind was indeed blowing up, and Bucky made sure to tuck that move away for later use.

“Well, Bucky and I are trying to get back to the basics, so letting us come hang out while you do your thing is like a favor to us.” Steve tossed the apple up really high, before snatching it out of the air and taking a huge bite. They’d wandered down to the farmer’s market by the water this morning and had picked eleven apples out by hand. Steve had insisted that they choose the ones with little bruises and imperfections and had given Bucky eleven quick pecks on the lips when he’d agreed.

They’d already found a new therapist just around the corner from their apartment. A really old guy named Dr. Auerbach, who’d agreed to see them five days a week for the foreseeable future. The clean corners of a new apartment didn’t mean that the nightmares were miraculously gone or that the constant whirring of the arm wasn’t haunting them both, it didn’t mean that Bucky had suddenly stopped counting Steve’s breaths or that Steve’s new habit of counting to eleven wasn’t getting worse. So they’d found Dr. Auerbach, a kind man whose wife baked shortbread cookies for the waiting room, and who wasn’t afraid to tell Steve and Bucky straight up how damaged they were. Bucky had a really good feeling about him and no uncontrollable desires to mess with him like poor Dr. Mayz. He and Steve really needed to send her a fruit basket or something...

Back to the basics had been going amazingly so far. It turned out that the brilliant love of Bucky’s life had planned ahead and had asked FRIDAY to prepare the necessary documents they’d need to go underground months ago, and that Steve had left everything where Clint could easily retrieve it for covert delivery to the Starbucks in the East Village. Bucky’s blue barista had remembered him.

Clint had also been kind enough to deliver Bucky’s journals, the locket, two ‘power bottom’ t-shirts, one red dildo (Clint was a real champ), two furry kittens, and the backpack that Bucky had hidden behind the wall which contained over three million dollars of neatly bundled Hydra money. So, that was good. Three million dollars was a nice round number, and, if they decided to make this permanent, there were four more backpacks just like it, waiting for he and Steve to take a few fun little road trips to acquire in their spare time.  

News from Avengerland, as reported by Clint Barton. Lead Story: Avengers in Crisis! How did Avenger’s compound dissolve into one giant clusterfuck? According to Clint’s detailed report: It was kinda fun watching Ross flounder around without any Avengers to bitch at. The administration and UN council were starting to have serious doubts about Ross’ motives _and_ his ability to handle the job. Tony was at Camp David to meet with the President, but, according to inside sources, after he played his eighteen holes he was ‘Going back to Cali’. Pepper Potts had taken an indefinite vacation and was also rumored to be hanging with LL Cool J in the land of palm trees and superstars. Reports suggest that the rest of the team remained at ‘summer camp’ in parts unknown, but Clint had whispered in Bucky’s ear that he was expecting a new pair of cufflinks to arrive soon. When Steve had gone up to the counter to get pastry, Clint had leaned over and muttered, “Just in case” before sliding the little silver box into the pocket of Bucky’s shorts. Bucky had tried really hard to slow down his breathing when Steve had returned with a blueberry muffin, but his mind had autonomously decided that he needed to make a new Pinterest pin...

Something blue.

Even though money wasn’t an issue, or even close to an issue, the complete inventory of their little 6th floor walk up on 116th Street in Kew Gardens was as follows:

  1. Air mattress. (Possibly the worst idea ever considering the kittens were assholes with sharp claws who attacked everything that moved.)
  2. A few stolen milk crates and three warped pieces of wood. (Bucky’d hauled the wood up six flights of stairs, scratching the walls the entire way up, to make some shitty shelves. He’d done the same thing in Bucharest, except cinder blocks had supported the planks. When he’d slid the milk crates into place, Bucky had taken a moment of silence to honor Kurt Scholz and Erik Neumann.)
  3. A few outfits neatly folded on the middle shelf.
  4. A couple of burner phones.
  5. Three thick novels from a used book store.
  6. A new sketchbook from the art store with the crooked floors two blocks over.
  7. Using the hacks FRIDAY had provided, their inventory also contained a new Mac laptop. (registered to Tammy Sherman in Pensacola, Florida and currently stealing the WiFi from their very nice downstairs neighbors Jenny and Connor, who didn’t seem to mind pretending that they had no idea who Captain America and The Winter Soldier were. They’d dropped off a plate of ‘special’ brownies with a little note that had said, ‘Welcome Fugitives’).
  8. A weapons bag that Bucky had stashed in an old Hydra safe house.
  9. Two Iron Man suits (out of commission until Bucky Googled ‘Black Power Ranger’).
  10. Litter box.
  11. Cat tree.
  12. Way too many cat toys (seriously, Steve had a real problem).
  13. And last, but not least: two furry shitheads who kept staring at them every time he and Steve tried to have sex on the air mattress.



That was it...

But only five things on that list really mattered:

  1. The burner phone to keep in touch with Clint and to eventually schedule a makeup date for their karaoke extravaganza.
  2. A fuzzy sweetheart named BP.
  3. A hyperactive fluff ball named Camo Rat.
  4. A man that Bucky loved with all his heart named Steve.
  5. And Bucky.



For once in his life, Bucky believed that he was worthy of that list...for once, he felt like he was exactly where he belonged.

The smaller their list had become, the more the little silver box that Bucky had secretly tucked above their new medicine cabinet seemed less hypothetical and more like it should be part of their new reality.

“You guys are officially off the grid then, huh? Like Jason Bourne? And the other guy...” Peter snapped his fingers. “The other one. Oh, this is gonna drive me crazy...you know, ‘The Bourne Legacy’...what’s his name?”

“No clue,” Bucky laughed. “I must have missed out on that one. But yeah, we’re trying to come up with new, less heroic superhero names for doing this kinda stuff with you.”

Peter leapt up on the edge of the roof and balanced along the bricks as he rambled. “So, this is gonna be a regular thing? Really? C’mon, you’re screwin’ with me.”

Tossing the apple core over the side, where it landed perfectly in the dumpster, Steve walked to lean against the chimney next to Bucky, and said, “We’re totally serious, Peter. We thought you might enjoy having a couple of sidekicks every once in awhile.” The warmth of Steve’s body felt nice against his shoulder...

“Look,” Bucky exclaimed, running his hands over Steve’s epic beard then grabbing onto the collar of Steve’s new hoodie. “The man formerly known as ‘Captain America’ is trying out his first costume option this evening: regulation vigilante beard, black cargo pants, tight black t-shirt, black lightweight hoodie zipped up just enough to show off his narrow waist…”

“You said I should do a deep V!” Steve swatted his hands away and laughed.

“I meant with no shirt underneath!”

“I can’t fight people with my chest hanging out!” Steve snorted then looked out over the city like any good hero should, even if he was too shy to rock the deep V, and even if his name was just ‘Steve’.

“So...” Steve kissed Bucky’s cheek then hopped up on the ledge in front of Peter. “...are you gonna show us the ropes or what?”

“Um, these are, like, the ropes. I kinda hang out and keep my eyes open while Karen follows the info coming across the police scanners.”

“So you just hang around on a roof until something happens?” Bucky chuckled because he could get down with that.

Peter decided to show off and flipped backwards away from Steve before answering. “Yeah, basically. Sometimes I practice new moves or figure out more stuff with the webbing. My arm hair’s been doing this weird thing lately, so I’m kinda playing around with that. Oh, and I’ve only figured out how to use about a quarter of the stuff Mr. Stark put in this suit, so that’ll keep me busy till I’m like twenty-five. Usually something comes up that I can help out with, but there’s some nights when everything’s quiet, and I just chill up here and enjoy the view.”

Steve’s face erupted into a big smile and he stared directly into Bucky’s eyes when he said, “That sounds like a great way to do things.”

It really did.

Taking a few steps away from the chimney, Bucky let himself remember his Stevie for a few slow minutes, then marvelled at the man he’d become. When Natasha finally returned from summer camp, he really hoped that she would place a simple pair of cufflinks in Clint’s special drawer, because simple was all that Bucky and Steve had ever needed.

With his hair pulled into a basic french braid that he’d managed by himself, even with the constant vibration in the hand, Bucky turned his face towards the light and simply enjoyed the view...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find Lorien/drjezdzany here
> 
> [Drjezdzany](http://drjezdzany.tumblr.com/tagged/my-art/)
> 
>  
> 
> Find lucidnancyboy/Jessie Lucid Art here 
> 
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/)  
> [Tumblr](https://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Lordy, do we love comments and kudos. They motivate us to write and draw and write and draw some more! So please, let us know what you think! Thank you so much for reading! :)
> 
> "Episode Two: We Hate Cats!" Playlist:
> 
> Chapter One:  
> Simon and Garfunkel- "America"  
> Avril Lavigne (feat. Chad Kroeger)- "Let Me Go"  
> Hozier- "Work Song"  
> Chapter Two:  
> Highly Suspect- "Little One"  
> Default- "Taking My Life Away"  
> Bassnectar- "Music is the Drug"  
> Julia Michaels- "Issues"  
> Chapter Three:  
> A Day to Remember- "End of Me"  
> Lana del Rey- "13 Beaches"  
> Staind- "It's Been Awhile"  
> Avril Lavigne- "I'm With You"  
> Chapter Four:  
> Audioslave- "I am the Highway"  
> Sense Field- "Lies"  
> Framing Hanley- "Lollipop"  
> Frank Ocean- "Thinking About You"  
> Billy Joel- "Just the Way You Are"  
> Placebo- "Breathe Underwater" (slow)  
> Chapter Five:  
> Oasis- "Champagne Supernova"  
> Kendrick Lamar- "Humble"  
> Rag 'n' Bone Man- "Human"  
> Simple Minds- "Alive and Kicking"  
> Chainsmokers- "Need You Right Now" (remix)  
> The Verve- "History"

**Author's Note:**

> Find Lorien/drjezdzany here
> 
> [Drjezdzany](http://drjezdzany.tumblr.com/tagged/my-art/)
> 
>  
> 
> Find lucidnancyboy/Jessie Lucid Art here 
> 
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/)  
> [Tumblr](https://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com/)
> 
> We love comments! They’re kind of like virtual donuts, and donuts are delicious! Thanks for reading!


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